The Princess's Guide to Popular Statecraft
by olivieblake
Summary: What comes after you marry the love of your life? Predictably, bliss—but when your new husband is next in line for the British throne, wrangling a kingdom is just par for the course. A guide to international diplomacy, maintaining a stiff upper lip, and doing some actual good in the world. Sequel to The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal. Dramione, modern royalty AU. COMPLETE.
1. A Lady Will Find a Compromise

**The Princess's Guide to Popular Statecraft**

_**Summary:**_ _What comes after you marry the love of your life? Predictably, bliss—but when your new husband is next in line for the British throne, wrangling a kingdom is just par for the course. A guide to international diplomacy, maintaining a stiff upper lip, and doing some actual good in the world. Sequel to The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal. Dramione, modern royalty AU. _

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I do not own these characters and claim no profit from this work. Credit where credit is due, Joanne Rowling. Additionally, while the story is inspired by the romances of Prince William and Prince Harry, all of the accounts/characterizations herein are fictional. It will have parallels with recent events in the British Royal Family, but will not mirror them exactly._

_**a/n: **__This story is a sequel; it picks up where __**The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal**_ _leaves off, so book one has to be read first. If you have read the brief one-shot I posted in Amortentia, The New Royal's Guide to Bearing Princes, those events will come to pass later in the story. I expect this fic will update weekly. Thank you for joining me here, and I look forward to another story with you!_

* * *

**Chapter 1: A Lady Will Find a Compromise**

_**DAILY PROPHET**__, The UK's Top Source for Breaking News  
ProphetOnline_

_ROYAL FAMILY IN CRISIS! Fmr Palace source cites Hermione Granger's difficulty; terrorizing staff, refusal to appear at State functions, forcing a rift between Prince Draco and Prince Lucius  
_— "_I made a terrible mistake!" Exclusive coverage of Prince Draco's heartbreak and regret!  
_— _King Abraxas 'very disheartened' as tension mounts; how Draco and Hermione have 'lost all perspective' while The Firm struggles to stabilize floundering public approval  
_— _Just WHO is advising the soon-to-be Princess of Wales? Inside the staffing nightmare and costly renovations at Kensington Palace_

_3:25 PM - 30 Jun 2018  
__**810**_ _Retweets __**689K **__Likes_

Well, as you can see, everything's going swimmingly. Ironically it isn't _not_, minus all this about me being some sort of Antichrist—which you'd think would be nothing new, and you'd be right. Though even I sometimes find myself grudgingly impressed by the Daily Prophet's necromancy when it comes to reinvigorating the same dead horse.

Before we get into my latest assault on Britain's constitutional monarchy and/or the apocalyptic disintegration of the Commonwealth, I think it's important to focus on the good. True, the abdication of Prince Lucius (the man) incited something of a broad institutional crisis, but he, at least, is happy, having decided to give up his claim to the throne in favor of loving his wife, reasserting his health, and working towards resolution with his father. Narcissa is also happy, having recently been reunited with her previously estranged husband (and also having escaped prosecution for the abduction of any insidious celebrity journalists, much to my considerable relief). Pansy and Harry are happy, being deeply enamored with their precocious daughter and newly thrilled for the impending birth of their son. Theo and Daphne are happy, one being deeply invested in growing the Transfiguration Project while the other expands her massively successful business. My parents are happy, having recently stepped back from their dental practice in favor of taking a sabbatical to travel the world. Blaise is Blaise, which means we _think_ he's happy, though we won't know for sure until he tells us or we die, whichever comes first. Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart are currently too distracted by their ongoing social media rivalry to focus on destroying our lives; Luna Lovegood is somehow one of the sought-after political pundits in the U.K.; Prince Lucius (the dog) is starting to regrow the small patches of fur lost to a recent skin infection; Hortense and Thibaut are wanted for war crimes (I assume, anyway—with them, no news is ideal news); and of course, Draco and I are happily wedded, and blissfully—revoltingly, according to Pansy—in love.

All's well that ends well, as the poets say, and they're not wrong. Or they wouldn't be, anyway, if our wedding had actually been _the end._

But love is tricky, isn't it? It's not exactly something you do alone, for one thing, and it's also—even with the best intentions—somewhat blind, which might be why I left out certain pieces of the story until now. In my defense, it wasn't so much failure to notice the existence of any simmering turmoil as it was having no reason to suspect any of those things would ever become my problem. After all, how was I to know that one of my friends had some foregone family history that might suddenly pop up with the arrival of an old vendetta? Or that the politics of the country I'd left behind might somehow bleed into my personal life? Or that I was going to have to be someone's _employer_, much less in need of an entire household staff?

Love is beautiful, and it isn't just blind; it's also really forking stupid. So, seeing as we've got a lot of ground to cover in terms of all my so-called misbehaviors, let's just jump right in.

* * *

_June 5, 2018  
Clarence House, London, England_

"I suppose one might be wondering what a new wife does for her husband on the occasion of his twenty-eighth birthday," Hermione said aloud, surveying the still-covered furniture in the house she was to occupy temporarily for the next unknown period of time. "Difficult enough _without_ consideration of the fact that one's new husband is the soon-to-be formally invested Prince of Wales, and therefore already in possession of most giftable items—"

"And certainly not aided by any other facts," contributed Theo, adding offhandedly, "And is it Draco's birthday again? I swear he just had one last year," before falling onto a peach-colored chaise and stretching luxuriously outwards, ankles dangling below the edge.

"Oh, he did, but just the one," said Hermione, before adding in an afterthought: "And remind me why you're here again?"

"Because I'm Draco's emotional support animal," said Theo. "And also, Daphne's not home."

"Right," Hermione said. "Just checking."

"I told you you didn't have to get me anything," said Draco with a heavy sigh, entering the room behind them and pulling Hermione in with one arm. He kissed the top of her head soundly, adding, "Marrying me was plenty—and besides, I think at this point I'm rather stupendously in your debt."

"You do make an excellent point about that," Hermione agreed, leaning into his shoulder. "I can't say I ever pictured my honeymoon being punctuated by daily conference calls with your father and Dobby. Nor did I suspect we'd be moving in with your parents."

"Well they're not actually _here_, and it's only temporary," Draco reminded her, looking moderately racked with guilt. "Just until our rooms are finished at Kensington Palace, I promise." Then, with his hands gripping remorsefully at her waist, he added quietly, "You don't regret it, do you?"

Silly man. "Not even a little," Hermione said, twisting around to face him. "Not for a moment."

"Well… hold that thought, would you?" Draco sighed, lifting her chin with a finger. "And give me a solid five seconds of affection before I'm forced to ask something else of you."

"Oh, happily," Hermione agreed, at which point Draco pulled her into his arms and kissed her as shamelessly as he might have done if Theo were not plainly there to witness it. (In fairness, Theo was busy pretending to read something that purported to be a very old and probably quite valuable edition of the Bible, which Hermione was intrigued to discover had not spontaneously crumbled to ash in his hands.)

Since the wedding, Hermione and Draco had come to establish a rhythm in which bad news was preceded by a five-second romantic interlude. True, it worked most obviously to Draco's benefit to soften her up before announcing something newly unsavory, but over time it was proving to be mutually beneficial. Generally speaking, a brief foray into the love that had lured her here in the first place was enough to remind Hermione that there were worse career choices to make, whatever the subsequent bad news happened to be.

"So," Draco said when they parted, smoothing a curl behind her ear, "remember how much you loathed those calls with Dobby?"

"Oh no. Do we have another one?" she guessed, grimacing. It was certainly no secret that while her new family was in the best shape it had been for decades, it was also politically in crisis. Ever since Lucius' decision to renounce his succession to the throne, there had been renewed public outcry from several anti-monarchy journalists and MPs. _What was the purpose of maintaining a system of primogeniture when the role of stewardship could be so easily declined? _Hermione could practically recite the contents of certain pro-Labour articles in her sleep; in fact, she wouldn't have been surprised if she learned that she actually _had_ been. Already, Draco had picked up a habit of stress-induced, systematic teeth-grinding that now required him to wear an absurdly unsexy (albeit intensely endearing) mouthguard at night.

That was the odd charm of marriage, wasn't it, knowing that? Threaded adoringly alongside the fault lines of their union was the privilege of intimacy with him, the granular details of what he truly was, the problems that kept him awake that were also, willingly, hers. To everyone else, Prince Draco was a rich man in a navy suit who offered photographs and gave speeches; his position in the world was, to many, the result of class prejudice, archaic tradition, and very, very little else. To Hermione, however, he was the sometimes half-unintelligible boy with bleary, tired eyes, her favorite companion, who cared about his country and his family's legacy so much he nearly broke his teeth every night just to keep them safe. Her husband, simultaneously the Prince of Wales, was a man who adored time with his goddaughter and displayed unfaltering self-possession in all circumstances and who leapt at the chance to fetch Hermione a glass of water if she even _hinted_ at being thirsty. That some might not think him deserving of every privilege in the world the same way she did was… politically reasonable. But it was also incredibly distant.

Hermione couldn't honestly say whether she would have thought much of the monarchy if she had followed the path she'd always intended to take. What had she thought of King Abraxas before marrying into his family? She struggled to remember, given everything that had come to pass, but she suspected that an alternate universe Hermione might not have batted an eye if she discovered the United Kingdom had suddenly done away with kings and queens altogether. Sometimes, secretly, Hermione's biggest source of stress was that she couldn't disagree with some of the arguments: the monarchy _was_ a vestigial organ, a foregone source of governance that existed primarily to bloat public funding and to persist in celebration of a baseless hierarchical tradition. Do away with the aristocratic class, by all means! Democracy would always bear more fruit—or so another version of Hermione might say, had she not also hypocritically salivated over her wedding tiara.

But since she so dearly loved the man who would have sacrificed everything to fulfill the duties he was tasked with from birth—and because she _really_ didn't want some grand institutional failure to come down like a guillotine on his beautiful blond head—Hermione figured she ought to join him in his fight to keep his family's reign alive. At the very least, she certainly owed it to him not to point out that maybe, possibly, the reason so many people took issue with his family was because they were a teeny, tiny, little eensy bit… _right._

Luckily it wasn't about right or wrong; not anymore. She'd chosen her side when she chose to be Draco's wife, his partner, and now she was also his colleague, the newest member of the British Royal Family and suddenly (depending on the day) both its favorite scapegoat and its only hope. True, at times Hermione was still considered too radical, too common, too aloof, a mere distraction from its deep systemic failures—but on better occasions she was a fresh perspective, a thinking woman, an inspiration to new generations of women and girls.

There was never any telling which it would be on any given day, or which of her qualities might be called upon to dominate the narrative. So to say that even a phone call with Dobby might disrupt her newly-wedded bliss for any number of reasons was really quite a forking understatement.

"Do you want the terrible news first, or the bad news?" asked Draco, dragging her back to the point.

"Mm, terrible news first," judged Hermione.

"Oof, this Job guy," commented Theo nonsensically, turning a page. "Yikes."

"Well, thank you for that marvelous refresher on the importance of perspective, Theodore," offered Draco wryly, "but more to the point, our first formal State visit after the ceremonial investiture has been scheduled for August."

"Oh," said Hermione, surprised by how harmless 'terrible' had turned out to be. "That's not so—"

"It's with President Bagman," said Draco.

"—ba- _fork_ no," she said, belatedly registering the name of the American president for whom she had resolutely not voted two years prior. "No. _No_. Are you joking? No, Draco Lucius Abraxas Wales, absolutely _not_, not a chance—"

"As for the bad news," Draco continued, clearly attempting to rid himself of all his burdens at once, "Dobby and Winky will be remaining on staff with my mother and father, which means we will actually not be hearing from Dobby much further and will, in fact, be needing a new chief of staff as soon as humanly possible. You will also need your own staff, ideally someone from the peerage, obviously a wom-"

"I am _not_ sitting in a room with Bagman," Hermione cut in frankly, before retreating with sudden alarm to, "Wait, a whole new staff?"

"No, no, not an _entirely_ new staff, or at least I very much hope not. We're good people, we don't, I mean we haven't—Nott, any assistance?" Draco stammered in a panic, sounding a lot like he was flinging a very hot potato across the room.

"You know, I hate to be predictable, but I think Satan makes an excellent point," replied Theo, crisply turning a page.

"Okay, thank you Theo, very helpful as ever—look, Hermione," Draco said, seizing one of her hands in what appeared to be a fervent attempt at reassurance. "I was really hoping to find a way out of dinner with Bagman, believe me, but perhaps there's a way to see it as a possible… advantage?"

Hermione's mind was reeling far too distractingly to produce anything sensible. "How on earth could there be an advantage?"

"I—" Draco broke off, wincing. "Well, I—"

"Here's a thought," Theo said, glancing up from his apparently very riveting text. "What if you tried considering that divine wisdom is simply… hidden from human minds?"

"Are you having some kind of delayed religious awakening?" asked Hermione.

"Of course not, I'm much too far gone," said Theo curtly, snapping the book shut and rising to his feet. "Anyway, I'm off. Dinner at ours later? Excellent. Good luck with the renovations, by the way," he added, resting a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "I hear your new neighbors have a certain… joie de vivre," he mused, and then smacked a kiss to the side of Draco's ear, strutting out of the room and whistling as he went.

"Wait," said Hermione, frowning. "Wait, did he say—? _Wait_. Wait." She blinked. "WAIT—"

"Right, so," attempted Draco, staring mournfully after Theo as if he hoped the latter might suddenly change his mind and come back. "I suppose it's possible I may have… neglected to add there was actually calamitous news in addition to the bad and terrible. But it's a palace, isn't it?" he offered Hermione in a desperate Hail Mary. "There's so many rooms—_so_ many rooms, truly. Enough to stage a revolution over, I promise—"

Hermione glanced over at Draco as he stumbled to a halt; she looked, specifically, at the crispness of his fading sunburn and the newly sun-bleached tips of his hair. She recalled the mindless euphoria of their holiday, the delight of waking each morning to sit down to breakfast with him. The way he'd made her come four times in the span of ten minutes yesterday, an episode of magnanimity in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable afternoon.

Very confusing, really, to be so annoyed and yet so helplessly attracted to one's somewhat frustrating coworker. She couldn't say she'd ever experienced that specific sort of annoyance with Oliver, and certainly not with Minerva.

"You might have told me all of that sooner," she grumbled.

"I know." He looked away. "I had my suspicions about some of it, but I only just got off the phone with my grandfather and—" He sighed. "It doesn't help, I'm sure, but most of it was news to me as well."

She considered him again, optimistically recounting the bounty that had been their recent nuptials. Not that the sex hadn't been good while they were dating, but there was something different about it now. A certain… freeing sensation. He had promised himself to her, body and soul, and now there was something newly primal in it—in the ownership factor, the indebtedness. The joining of souls, the melding of lives, the braiding of two fundamentally disparate experiences. Sure it was mildly terrifying, the idea that nothing they did could possibly sever themselves from the other, but it was exciting, too, wasn't it, that everything they did from here forward was inextricably bound?

_He's a job_, Pansy's voice said in her head, _and protest as you will, but neither of you are any good at it._

"Can anything be done about it right now?" Hermione asked him.

Draco shook his head, somewhere between guilty and relieved. "No."

"Then let's not," she suggested, taking his hand and tugging him down to the peach-pink chaise to delight for the time being in their mutual ineptitude.

* * *

"I'd completely forgotten Hortense and Thibaut were living in Kensington Palace," said Pansy with a shudder. "You're absolutely _certain_ you want to continue with the renovations? I'd sooner burn the place to the ground."

"You say that as if you're not already a closeted arsonist, Pans," said Harry, tossing a nearly three-year-old Jamie into the air before setting her, grinning, on his hip.

Pansy gave Harry a look suggesting he ought to hush; he rewarded/punished her with a kiss that Jamie did not appear to care for, opting instead to shove Harry's face away from her mother.

"_Ew_, Dada," she said.

"Hear, hear," said Theo, raising a celebratory glass in Jamie's direction. "A prophet walks among us."

"Ignore him," Hermione assured Pansy, who had arched a brow. "He recently found a Bible."

"I keep telling you not to let him play with those," Pansy replied.

"Not to harp on the subject, but I still can't believe anyone expects you to attend a state dinner with _Ludo Bagman_," Harry said to Hermione—ignoring Theo, who was entertaining Jamie via the old spoon-on-the-nose trick. "Is it possible Abraxas has never met you before?"

Hermione stifled a groan in agreement. "I would hope he has some idea what I think about Bagman's politics. Or could at least hazard a guess." She had never made a secret of her own liberal tendencies, and surely Abraxas (or more accurately, Nott Senior) had done a thorough enough background check to see that she'd registered Democrat at eighteen and voted diligently in every election, including the 2016 one, even while living abroad. "Since Bagman took office he's chipped away at every federal aid program, he's put absolute _puppets_ on both the Supreme Court and the cabinet, he's shamelessly nepotistic _and_ he's a climate denier—"

"Normally I'd say there's something hilarious about our prodigal nation succumbing to madness and hysteria," contributed Theo, removing the spoon from his nose upon earning a glare from Hermione, "but admittedly, it's not quite as funny as I'd hoped."

"Even Pansy's plotting a boycott," Harry said, prompting Hermione to turn to Pansy with an expression of surprise.

"Oh please, Hermione," sniffed Pansy, "there's no need for hysterics. I'm not _plotting_ anything so much as I am coincidentally burdened with Henry's miscreant spawn," she clarified with a hand on her stomach, though she was obviously not too pregnant to prevent herself from redistributing Theo and Daphne's servingware. "My goodness, Theodore," she muttered, scrutinizing his selection of cutlery, "were you raised by wolves?"

"Far worse, actually. A single man in his mid-fifties," said Theo.

"Point taken. And as for the other atrocity in question," Pansy said in an apparent reference to Ludo Bagman, "might we all decline to speak about colonial politics for a single evening?"

"A _single_ evening, Pans? You say that as if it's nothing but colonial politics all the time," retorted Hermione, not even bothering to amend the reference to her country of origin. "When have we ever talked about anything American? Aside from your diligent inventory of my failures, that is."

"For what it's worth, England's hardly much better at the moment," Blaise observed upon entry from whichever mysterious corner of elsewhere he'd been hiding, pouring himself into the chair across from Hermione accompanied by the bottle of wine he'd been instructed to fetch. "Though Scrimgeour's on the outs, thankfully." To Hermione's expression of surprise, Blaise added, "The man has absolutely no conception of when it is seasonally appropriate to trot out some chunky knits. Just looking at him gives me a low-burning sensation of hives."

"God, I absolutely loathe Scrimgeour," said Hermione, making a face. "Fudge was a coward for resigning, clearly, but Scrimgeour's divisive, fearmongering, ineffective—"

"—and coming to dinner next week," Draco cut in, sweetly tapping Jamie's nose before falling into the seat beside Hermione, freshly prepared salad in hand. "So just keep that in mind, my dove," he added, giving her a pointed kiss on the cheek.

"Well, Bagman is admittedly more distasteful than Scrimgeour," Blaise acknowledged, taking a testing sip of Sancerre, "and worse, a total buffoon."

"Sartorially, you mean?" asked Pansy.

"Not at all. Sartorially he's a criminal," scoffed Blaise. "Morally he's a satanist, and _politically_ he's a buffoon."

"Quite an opinion from you," noted Hermione, amused in spite of herself. "I never thought you'd be invested in what the American president was up to."

"Invested? No," Blaise corrected her. "Held captive, such as when someone ahead in the queue happens to be watching pornography on his mobile? Yes, very much so."

"Which specific thing about Bagman do you think is his worst bit?" Harry mused to Blaise, securing Jamie on his lap while she tugged at his tie. "The racism? The overuse of Twitter?"

"The tendency for bankruptcy? History of financial mismanagement? Refusal to acknowledge the constituents he claims—_falsely_—to represent? The list could go on eternally," muttered Hermione, making a face as Blaise gestured to Harry in a vague indication of _sure, that_. "And to think I hardly bothered worrying about his election because I thought, completely idiotically, how bad could it possibly be?"

From Theo, sagely: "Well, there's your eternal flaw, Cali. Never open the door for chaos."

From Blaise, with a scoff: "It's not Basile, Theodore. It doesn't wait outside to be invited in."

Theo, shrugging: "Still, better some guerilla stakeout on the lawn than an outright summons to the house. California's as good as shared the Netflix log-in, hasn't she?"

From Draco: "I know I'm supposed to say something sensible here, but actually I rather like the idea that chaos is some weedy, uninvited party guest who might acquiesce to sleep in the garden. That or barge in to binge-watch _Grace and Frankie_."

From Hermione: "Did you just describe chaos as if it were Theo?"

Blaise, with a heavy sigh: "I regret having to add this to your list of existential challenges, New Tracey, but minus ten for even suggesting the two were not clearly one and the same."

From Pansy: "Nott's inadequacy aside, I should think it quite obvious the only plausible solution is for Hermione to fall gravely ill."

From everyone: "What?"

From Harry: "Well there's no winning, is there? Why Abraxas would even agree to _host_ Bagman is beyond me."

Draco, one hand tensing around his napkin beneath the table: "It's not as if Grandfather can simply denounce the existence of the United States, Harry."

Pansy, eyes affixed to her water glass: "Is there really no chance we could behave like civilized people and refrain from discussing politics?"

Hermione, vigorously: "None whatsoever, Pans."

Harry, to Draco: "Are you saying you think this visit's in any way a good idea?"

Draco, sensing a trap: "Blaise, a little help? I can only assume this conversation bores you."

Blaise, cheerfully: "Oh, excruciatingly yes. It makes me want to die, but Hortense says I ought to challenge my mortality once in a while, so who am I to intervene?"

Draco, sighing: "Well, naturally."

Theo, ever the firestarter: "Henry, do tell us more."

Harry, ignoring Pansy's warning glare: "I'm not looking for a fight, I'm just saying—Jamie, sweets, be gentle with Daddy's beard hair, please—I'm just saying it's not as if reminding the country that their future queen consort is an American isn't something of a questionable tactic. Look at the optics—Jamie? James, honey… thank you sweetheart, good girl, much better. So either Hermione appears to approve of Bagman's policies and is therefore relegated to being yet another in a line of sniveling, complicit figureheads—"

Pansy, drily: "By all means, darling, don't mince words."

Harry: "—or she goes, however sullen and unwelcoming in all her new jewels and gowns, and then appears for all intents and purposes to be precisely the commoner upstart she is."

Theo, impressed: "When did Pansy get so adept at ventriloquism?"

Blaise: "Ten points to Lady Seven-Names! I didn't even see her lips move."

Pansy, with a roll of her eyes: "For heaven's sake, you goons, he's merely making an extremely adequate point."

Harry, to Hermione: "I mean, I was joking about the commoner upstart part, obviously—"

Pansy: a sigh.

Harry, to Draco: "—but the point remains, doesn't it, that Abraxas is all but throwing her to the wolves?"

From everyone minus Jamie, who was playing with Harry's tie: a tepid glance at Draco.

Draco, hesitantly: "I believe Grandfather's courtiers are simply hoping to leverage Hermione's popularity while we sort out my father's exit from public life. You saw the reports, Harry. The success of her social media outreach, her patronage, her effect on the economy, plus the approval rating in Wales specifically—"

Harry, with no small amount of shamelessness: "Ah of course, so she's a political pawn for Abraxas to leverage, then. Asking your wife to throw herself under the bus for your family is a bit much, though, isn't it Draco? Even for you."

To Hermione's surprise, her anger in response to Harry's careless accusation was sharper than she anticipated. "It's my family now, too, Harry," she snapped, prickling at having to remind him, "not that I have any illusions about any of this being in my defense. You're being intentionally difficult—or do you actually think I don't understand what's being asked of me?"

Harry's face remained carefully measured while Jamie squirmed in his lap, babbling toddler nonsense to herself. "Hermione, I wasn't—"

"What a nightmare that fitting was! I am abso-_lute_-ly ravenous." In typical perfection—this time a matter of her impeccable timing—Daphne waltzed through the door of her own dining room, auburn hair floating loose around a mint-colored wrap gown from her own collection. She strode directly up to Theo, kissing him squarely on the lips, and gave each of their friends a welcoming hug, going so far as to absentmindedly pet Prince Lucius (the dog) before eventually registering their uncomfortable blanket of silence.

"Oh _god_," said Daphne belatedly, glaring at Theo as if she suddenly wished to retract her affectionate welcome. "What on earth did you do to them, Nott?"

"What makes you think it was me?" Theo demanded, tugging her into his lap. "I've been doing absolutely nothing since you left here this morning."

"It's true, he's been intentionally useless," Pansy confirmed with a sip from her water glass. "An utter waste of space."

"_Thank_ you," said Theo, gesturing appreciatively to Pansy. "See, Greengrass?"

"Well, cheers to that," Daphne sighed, summoning up Theo's glass and freeing herself from his grip to sit properly in a chair to Hermione's right. "Well?" she prompted ambiguously, pouring herself a hefty serving of Sancerre. "Is anyone going to enlighten me on what we've all been discussing, or should I just start serenading Draco now?"

With that, the rest of the table seemed to abruptly recall the reason for that particular dinner.

"Yes, perhaps we might do with the reminder that it's Draco's _birthday_," Hermione suggested to an innocently shrugging Harry, "and therefore decline to antagonize him for one single evening, hm?"

"Oh, it was you, okay then," said Daphne, nodding sagely to herself at the acknowledgement that Harry, not Theo, had accosted them all with a fresh bout of unnecessary controversy. "That would've been my second guess. Anyway, where's Neville?" she asked, turning to Blaise, who took that opportunity to glance with great interest at the stem of his wine glass.

"On a date, I believe," said Blaise.

"Oh, _Blaise_," said Hermione and Daphne in unison, delivering Blaise to an exasperated sigh.

"Minus five from each of you," he said.

"For what?" Hermione and Daphne demanded.

"Just generally," he replied.

"But—"

"I was supposed to be marrying someone else later this month, in case that escaped your attention," he sniffed, though Hermione was certain she caught evidence of Pansy seeking his eye across the table; doubtless Pansy was gauging his response for any distress, which meant they'd been right to suspect he had some. "I told Neville that neither of us were in a position to dive into anything remotely serious at the moment. In fact it was my idea that he see someone else," Blaise added offhandedly. "Or perhaps several someones. In any case, I'm fine."

Contradictorily, he drained the rest of his glass.

"So, Lady Nott," Blaise announced, correctly interpreting Daphne and Hermione's collective silence as a prelude to any number of cooing reassurances he wouldn't enjoy, "I daresay you have thoughts on _President_ Ludo Bagman, do you not?"

"Politically? He's a buffoon," said Daphne, who, to Hermione's continued dismay, was always woefully easy to distract. "And sartorially he's a criminal."

"Thirty points for unequivocal correctness," declared Blaise.

Beneath the table, Draco reached silently for Hermione's hand.

* * *

One of the easiest changes to become accustomed to was slipping into bed with Draco each night, which was a beautiful new addition to Hermione's conception of normalcy. Had Draco been anyone else they would have surely begun living together before now, sparing themselves the necessity of parting to their respective homes, but the circumstantial delay made that little luxury of married life even sweeter. The sensation of curling herself into the slip of vacancy he always reserved for her in his arms was better for knowing she wouldn't have to leave it until morning.

"Harry isn't wrong, you know," Draco said in her ear, and though Hermione typically would have had no problem relegating his cheek to the trials of coexistence with her mass of hair, she twisted around to face him.

"I know he isn't _wrong_," she acknowledged at a mutter, "but that doesn't make him right." Whatever Harry had to say about it, Hermione would always remember what life was like when she allowed herself to feel resentment about Draco or his family. She'd decided a long time ago that she was never doing that again. "If he aims for you, he'd better learn he's shooting at me, too," she grumbled under her breath, and Draco chuckled.

"Much as I not-so-secretly delight in your newfound defense of my family, I do think Harry's intentions are good. He's simply accustomed to occupying the moral high ground—and besides," Draco murmured, "didn't you say precisely the same things when I first brought up the matter of Bagman?"

Hermione bit her tongue on the instant gratification of denial—which, while satisfying, would have been supremely false. She _did_ feel similarly about the matter, but marriage was a team sport.

"It's one thing to point out the difficulty of the situation," she demurred, feeling comfortable with a logical dismantling of Harry's argument. "That's a given. But it's a completely separate issue to accuse you of doing this _to _me, as if I had no choice in the matter."

"Ah, because doing it _next_ to you is so distinct," Draco said, and she rolled her eyes.

"Are you trying to argue Harry's side now, Draco? I swear, there's no winning with you two—"

"Of course not," he assured her quickly. "But still, I know who I married." He kissed her forehead, a reassuring brush of affection. "It's not as if I'm not aware that another version of you would sooner nail Bagman to the wall than dine politely with him."

"He's an idiot and a tyrant," Hermione confirmed, unable to suppress a bit of causticity now that she no longer had to defend anyone or bite her tongue. "I knew the moment he was elected that politics were taking a turn for the unimaginable. And now to have to _acknowledge_ him, publicly, and to be _seen_ with him—"

She broke off, repulsed, and Draco's expression sobered.

"If you want me to go to war with my grandfather over this, I will," he said. "I owe you that much, believe me. Harry's not wro-"

"Yes, yes, Harry's not wrong, I know. I'm fully aware I'm being leveraged," she grumbled, opting for levity. "But on the bright side, it's probably making Theo's father furious to think I'm your family's best option, right?"

Gratifyingly, Draco laughed, unrestrained, and Hermione had to admit he seemed easier these days. Lighter, and less alone.

"You're right, it probably is. Granted, Grandfather can't actually make sense of the fact that our wedding photo broke an Instagram record," he said. "I tried to explain it to him and he just asked me to start again from the top, which was somewhere around the invention of the smartphone. But he at least understands that globally, people adore you. Almost as much as I do." To punctuate his point, Draco slid forward, one hand finding her hip. "But whatever Grandfather thinks about it, I don't want to take advantage of you. I'm not interested in making you feel like you're being used."

"Oh Draco, for fork's sake. Use me." She kissed his cheek, then the little crease of worry between his brows. "I'm your partner. I'm yours—or better yet, we're ours. If I can help dig your family—_our_ family—out of the grave that your parents inadvertently dug for us, then by all means, I'm happy to do it. But as far as it goes with Bagman…"

She grimaced, and Draco briefly closed his eyes.

"What about a compromise," he suggested, his hand slipping under her pajama shorts. "You agree to come to the dinner, and we find a way to make your stance on his politics clear beforehand."

Obvious questions were obvious: "How?"

"Some sort of… public address?" He nudged her chin up with his nose, pressing a kiss to the base of her throat. "You could give a speech. Empowering women, or supporting some relevant cause. Maybe you and Pansy can make a conspicuously timed joint appearance—"

"My goodness, what a dastardly revolt this is," Hermione said wryly, humming a little with approval when he slid her underwear aside.

"—seeing as you're both very popular. Very." His thumb brushed her skin, stroking. "Anything the two of you did would vastly outweigh his presence here. And maybe there's some wardrobe code you could try," he said in her ear, easing her onto her back and positing an invitation between her thighs. "Some significant color or designer or a piece of jewelry or something. Daphne would know, wouldn't she?"

"Ah, the secret language of fashion," Hermione said, though her mock-contemplative and half-sarcastic 'ah' turned out to be more of an _ahhhh_, as in _keep going, you devious prince_.

"Must I go on? It's my birthday," Draco lamented, feigning a look of melancholy as Hermione wriggled against his touch. "And you didn't even _get_ me anything—"

"Oh alright, that's quite enough from you," Hermione growled in disapproval, shoving him onto his back and ignoring his stupid look of entitlement once she'd pinned his shoulders to the bed. "Didn't you specifically say not to bother with gifts?"

"I'm not a saint, Hermione," Draco said very seriously. "I require attention. Sentiment. Sexual favors. I have _needs_, you know—"

"And to think I could have just married a humble blacksmith," Hermione sighed, though of course she couldn't have, because even while she pretended to be exhausted by him she was enamored, enthralled, exhilarated. And besides, he wasn't completely useless. She'd watched him tighten something in the sink just that morning, and he even knew what to do about tomato stains.

Blessed, wretched man.

"Well, come on, then," she offered in capitulation, tugging laboriously at his pants. "Away with these, Your Royal Highness."

"I'm supposed to undress myself? Honestly, modernity is such a disappointment—"

His phone buzzed once on the nightstand and Hermione glanced over from where she straddled his hips, frowning.

Draco groaned. "I can't believe I'm the one saying this but ignore it, Hermione, it's just an email—"

"Who's Severus Snape?" she asked, catching the unfamiliar name on the screen.

"What? Oh, Dobby's replacement," Draco said, bucking his hips beneath hers. "Or potential replacement, anyway, provided his interview goes well, though it's mostly a formality. And you were saying about undressing me?"

"Sounds familiar," Hermione said, still trying to match the name to a face. "Was he on Prince Lucifer's staff?"

"Yes, he's the next in line for a promotion and anyway, about my birthday gift—"

"You're just going to give him a promotion because he's 'in line' for it?" Hermione asked, glancing down at Draco with amusement. "Don't you think you should have a better reason for choosing the person you work with every day than just 'he's next in line'?"

Draco propped himself up on his elbows. "Well, that's not quite fair, is it?" he asked, suddenly turning very grave and princely. "It's a very British concept, you know, to have a sense of duty, an expectation to uphold. And if he weren't good at his job, he wouldn't have risen to where he is."

"Ah, well, in _that_ case." Hermione shifted downward, peeling Draco's boxer-briefs from his hips and allowing him to watch her as she slid them down his legs. "Am I supposed to just promote someone from your mother's staff, then?"

"Well—" Draco inhaled swiftly as Hermione stroked her palm over his cock, feeling it jolt appeasingly in her palm. "No," he concluded at an exhale, grey gaze still attentively following her motions. "No, you can… choose your own staff."

"What am I looking for?" she asked, running the tip of her tongue over the head of his cock, swirling it lightly as he braced himself. "You know, in terms of specifications."

"Um." He swallowed, groaning. "You want to talk about this right now?"

"I'm a very good multitasker." She slid her lips over him to prove it.

"Right. Yes, you certainly are." She watched his fingers twist into the sheets, grasping them like reins. "You'll want… a good background. The right… education. Family. _Fuck_. Christ. A good… understanding of… fuck." An exhale. "Public relations."

"Anything else?"

He tipped his head back, exhaling obscenities.

"Language, darling," Hermione said.

"Birth." He reached out to take a loose fistful of her hair. "Matters," he mumbled.

"Hm?"

"God, I don't know. _Hermione_. Hermione, stop, I'm—" He broke off, pulling her up and tossing her on her back in the same fluid motion, a satisfied laugh bubbling up from a sigh. "Sorry," he said, catching her lips with his and kissing her, kissing her again, kissing her more. "Have to have you now," he mumbled to her mouth.

"Have me, then." Oh, how easy it was for them now. _Have me, I'm already yours._

He stroked between her legs, easing one leg onto his hip. She nudged him, expectant, but he stayed where he was, contemplating something for a moment while he looked at her.

"About… the other thing," he said softly.

Right. The other thing that sometimes (usually) came after marriage.

A thing that Hermione, unlike other wives, was professionally obligated to do.

"Not… not yet, okay?" she said, hesitating. "Just not _quite_ yet. Let's get through the summer first and see, because I just… I want to have you to myself right now." She glanced up at him, running her fingers over his brow. "I want you, just you. All mine." A nip at his lips, half-bitingly. "No sharing."

He smiled at her, handsome and golden and totally, resolutely hers. Something she'd waited a long, long time to have.

"Okay," Draco agreed, kissing her again until they both gasped.

* * *

Severus Snape turned out to be much younger than he looked, at least according to Draco. Hermione was less than impressed, finding him to be rather unwelcoming. It was a very brief introduction—merely accomplished in passing as Draco emerged from the office he was using in Clarence House until their renovations were finished—but it was enough to find herself vaguely put out.

"I'm not sure what it is aside from instant, baseless dislike," Hermione grumbled to Pansy, who had invited her to Grimmauld Place under what was surely the pretense of tea. "But Draco seems to like him."

"I think Draco is predisposed to like anyone who's served his father as long as Snape has," said Pansy diplomatically. "More than likely the man's been in Draco's orbit since he was a child. Even I can recall seeing him around, come to think of it."

"But can't we just hire someone new?" Hermione asked. "British things are always inherited, it makes no sense. Shouldn't there be some consideration of merit?"

"Says the inheritress to a kingdom," Pansy pointed out, adding somewhat snidely, "Surely you hear yourself, Hermione?"

"Oh, whatever," sighed Hermione. Whenever Pansy got excessively aristocratic, she seemed to combat it by becoming exceptionally juvenile. "I guess I'm just a bit uncomfortable with all the changes."

"Which is precisely why Draco intends to keep Snape around, I expect," Pansy reminded her. "And anyway, you ought to be careful. People are bound to misinterpret you and Draco losing so much of your staff to Prince L-" She stopped. "To Lucius," she said, and then frowned. "No," she sighed, "I can't do it."

"That's part of the problem, I think," Hermione admitted. "As unpopular as Prince Lucifer was, his absence from public life is somehow equally disliked. There's all this nonsense about him giving back the taxpayer money he and Narcissa spent on their residences," she grumbled, "as if he _wasn't_ working on behalf of the country at the time—"

"They don't want him to be king, but they also don't want him to not be a prince," said Pansy, aptly summarizing the issue. "In the end nobody actually knows _what_ they want, hence the importance of an appropriately commanding head of state—Abraxas, for now," she acknowledged, pouring more tea into Hermione's cup, "and eventually Draco."

Hermione considered her for a second. "You actually think that?"

"I do," Pansy said. "Tradition is everything. The importance of ceremony is, contrary to your wild beliefs, _everything_. Which is why you will accept Snape's presence as your chief of staff," she added firmly, "and you'll select an appropriate private secretary for yourself, too. Because appearances are very much a part of your job, and so is following protocol."

"Gross." There it was again; anarchistic teenage reflexes. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Yes," said Pansy, with suspicious ease. "Have you started trying yet?"

"Trying what? Drugs?"

"For a baby, you obstinate cow," said Pansy, unblinking when Hermione kicked in irritation at her ankle. "Don't act like you didn't know precisely what I meant."

"Okay, that's enough from you. As your guest and coincidentally also Princess of Wales, I'm officially pulling rank," said Hermione. "No talk of babies, private secretaries, diplomacy, my hair—"

"My god, the entitlement," noted Pansy, adopting a mocking version of Hermione's voice. "Nothing's changed, she says. I'm still the same Hermione, she says. All lies, every last word of it—"

"Why am I hanging out with you? I should call Daphne," Hermione grumbled, and Pansy gave her a curt, mischievous smile that Hermione might have assumed Jamie had gotten from Harry if not for knowing perfectly well it belonged to the woman sitting before her.

"Good luck with that. Daphne's close to unreachable these days," Pansy said, raising her cup to her lips. "I won't be surprised if you'll have to hire a new stylist quite soon."

"What?" That, unlike Pansy's previous teasing, successfully rocked Hermione's sense of stability. "But Daphne—"

"Is doing all of this as a favor to you, Hermione. I don't have to remind you that her dream was to have a successful line of haute couture, not to be at your beck and call." Pansy sipped her tea, giving Hermione a pointed glance. "If you truly want to be helpful—as you so relentlessly claim you do," she demurred with a hint of guile, "you'll find a way to offer her an out."

"But—" Hermione withered. "But she's the only one I trust to help me with this state visit," she said helplessly, and Pansy gave a dainty shrug.

"I'm sure she'll be happy to help in some capacity, but your obligations are about to render your daily life into someone's full time job. I do not think Daphne will ever refuse you, but I also doubt she'll thank you if that position falls to her."

"So now I'm supposed to hire a stylist _and_ a secretary?" Hermione groaned. "You do realize that means I'm supposed to find _two_ people I can stand to talk to every day, right?"

"I rarely speak to my secretary," Pansy said with a shrug, which Hermione supposed was meant to be helpful. "What would we possibly say to each other? Most often she schedules my events and hands me my umbrella, which inevitably Harry holds anyway."

"Speaking of Harry," said Hermione, desperate for any change in subject. "Is he still up in arms about all of this?"

"Not at all," came a voice from behind her. "You know me, Hermione. Like my wife, I'm only violent on the tennis court."

Hermione turned, observing Harry's slender presence in the door frame. "Hi," she offered somewhat cautiously, trying to gauge whether he'd come for a fight.

He inclined his head, proving otherwise. "Hi," he replied, stepping inside.

"Excuse me," Pansy said, rising to her feet as Harry entered the room. "Just have to check on Jamie."

She rested a hand briefly on Harry's chest, advising him with a warning glance, and allowed her cheek to be kissed once before slipping out of the room.

"So," Hermione noted aloud, setting her cup down as Harry approached. "This is why I was summoned, then."

"My wife does have certain feelings on how a proper apology should take place," Harry confessed, settling himself across from Hermione. "Though in my defense, I was already aware one was owed."

"There's no need," Hermione said. "What happened the other night—"

"Was a failure by me to understand that you're not the same person you were seven years ago," Harry supplied for her. "None of us are, but especially not you."

He was wearing his glasses, and a jumper that gave him a particularly fatherly air—a soft knit that somehow made him look unquestionably like a man with a young daughter.

"I am accustomed to criticizing Draco, given our diverging opinions on how his role should be handled," Harry said, "but I forgot that he is no longer himself alone."

"Yes, you did forget," Hermione said with as much sternness as she could muster, though it was difficult to stay angry with Harry. "But I know you mean well," she offered in a resigned afterthought.

He smiled at her. "Draco and I are immensely lucky to have found you and Pansy. You're not very different from my wife, I'm sorry to say," he told her, chuckling when she made a face. "You're both willing to face hell for the ones you love. Bloodshed and carnage," he mused. "It's all just part of the contract with you women. You can only love in lethal doses."

"Am I to believe your love is any different?" asked Hermione, arching a doubtful brow.

Harry gave a knowing shrug. "I'd burn the world down for her," he admitted. "But it's comforting, I'll admit. She'll have already done it first, so there's never any need for me to bother."

Things between them felt comfortable by the time Pansy returned; by then Hermione and Harry had returned to their usual equilibrium, discussing the engagements she was attending to in the coming weeks—including what would be her first solo appearance with the King.

"Have you seen much of the Prince of Darkness recently?" asked Harry, earning himself an elbow to the ribs from his wife. "Pans, please, he may not be Prince of Wales, but he still has a rightful title—"

"Actually, no," admitted Hermione. "Though I know it's coming. Draco mentioned there's speculation of a rift, so I have no doubt we'll all go on some sort of outing soon."

"Probably church," Pansy ruled. "For which I must firmly request that you not appear to be some sort of schoolgirl at an academy for lady wizards," she added to Hermione, who made a face.

"But I liked the little neck bow," said Harry, frowning. "Is that not fashion?"

"Of course it is," Hermione protested. "Daphne said so, and anyway it was Elie Saab!"

"Of course it was," Pansy echoed smoothly, communicating to Harry with a glance that he must never make such wild assertions again so long as he hoped to live a full and natural life. "Though again, I do think it would do you some good to work with a new stylist. Daphne is much too lenient with your oddities in taste."

"Ah, I meant to ask," Harry said, conveniently chiming in before Hermione could have another mini-crisis over losing her best friend's fashion expertise, "who's been hired to your household? Because if Draco's looking to promote from within, Ron's brother is up for consideration."

"But I thought Bill was a banker," said Hermione with confusion.

"The Weasleys are infamous for the size of their broods," said Pansy, scoffing once again at Hermione's inadequate social knowledge. "They have a virility that would have driven the Tudors to murder."

"Almost anything drove the Tudors to murder, but she's not wrong," contributed Harry. "His name's Percy and he works somewhere in Abraxas' offices. I can give you a reference, if you'd like—"

"Draco's already chosen a new head of staff, unfortunately," Hermione sighed. "And there's allegedly nothing wrong with him."

Harry: "Allegedly?"

Hermione: "Allegations of 'normality' have been made."

Pansy: "You're both being foolish. I told you, Hermione, Snape's been with Draco's family for years. Probably since bef-"

"Did you just say Snape?" cut in Harry, using the harshest tone Hermione had ever heard him take with anyone, much less with his wife. Pansy, in fact, clearly balked at the sound of it, a little glimpse of girlish apprehension appearing on her face.

"Sorry." Harry cleared his throat. "Sorry, love." He reached over, sliding an arm around her waist, and she must have been considerably startled by his tone, because she didn't bother preventing it. "I'll have to have a chat with Draco about that."

"Oh no, _don't_," said Hermione hastily. "You two aren't exactly…" She paused. "I just mean, Harry, you haven't really been—"

Pansy: "Sane."

Hermione: "I was going to say 'accommodating,' but for all intents and purposes—"

Harry: "Draco and I have a rapport, Hermione, it's nothing to worry about. We've managed not to kill each other for… Well, going on twenty-eight years in a row now, isn't it? Brava us, come to think of it. We ought to commemorate our success."

He poured himself a fresh cup of tea, giving Hermione an easy Prince Harry glance.

"Draco's my cousin," he reminded her. "He's all but a brother. We have our disagreements here and there, but ultimately we resolve them. I have no plans for anything more than a little chat."

Pansy and Hermione exchanged a doubtful glance.

"I'll make sure to be there," Pansy assured Hermione, who nodded in relief. "To mediate."

Harry, impatiently: "We don't need a mediator, Pans."

Pansy: "Then I'll be there to translate."

Harry: "We don't need—"

Pansy: a scathing glance.

Harry, with a sigh: "Thank you, sweetheart, I accept."

"And as for you," Pansy said, returning her attention to Hermione, "have you decided what you're going to do about the Bagman visit?"

"Are you really not attending?" Hermione countered, hoping not to answer right away.

"No." Pansy's response was flat.

"Okay, but—"

"I may not appear to draw many lines, Hermione, but I like to think I know one when I've found it." She took a sip of tea. "Of course, that being said, _I_ will never wear a crown, nor will I ever call myself queen." She gave Hermione a look that—to Hermione's surprise—appeared to be quite sympathetic, even understanding. "For you everything is less simple."

"So you… support me, then?" asked Hermione, somewhat taken aback. "If I go, you won't blame me?"

"I would not presume any right to hold your decision against you either way." Pansy paused for a moment, smoothing her skirt before settling her teacup carefully back in its saucer. "I," she began, and plucked an imaginary loose thread from her lap, "am."

Another long pause.

"On your side," Pansy finished eventually.

Then she raised her cup to her lips again.

Seeing how it was the closest thing Hermione had ever gotten to a pledge of devotion from Pansy, she didn't waste a moment of it.

"Move," Hermione said firmly to Harry, shoving him gracelessly aside before wrapping her arms around Pansy, who gave a deep, long-suffering sigh.

* * *

When Hermione returned to Clarence House, it was to find Draco in conversation with both Snape and (speaking of the Prince of Darkness) Lucius. She paused a moment in the threshold of his temporary office, recognizing the signs of ongoing conversation, and felt a little pang of surreality. Draco sat behind the desk, one hand held to his mouth in thought while he faced two much older men, both of whom appeared to be awaiting his answer. The light of the study gave Draco's blond hair a noticeable glint, and for the first time, it was less difficult to picture him without a crown than it was to imagine him with one.

"Oh, Hermione, come in," said Draco, rising to his feet and crossing the room to her, saving her the awkwardness of entry. "How was Pansy?"

"Oh… fine. Great, actually." She was unaccustomed to the conventions of her new position; Lucius didn't bow, instead inclining his head in her direction upon standing at her entry, but Snape did.

Not deeply. Not… reverently. But noticeably.

"Lucius," Hermione said, nodding to her father-in-law as she accepted first Draco's kiss on the cheek and then his offering of his own chair behind the desk. "And, um." She glanced questioningly at Draco for clarification on what to call his new chief of staff, but Snape cleared his throat quietly.

"Your Highness, if I may," he said, addressing her with another bow. "Snape will do."

"Right. Yes. Snape. Excellent." She sank heavily into the chair Draco had pulled out for her. "You were all discussing something?"

Draco chose not to sit, instead leaning against the arm of her chair. "We're just working out the transition between households. Snape's just confirmed we'll be ready to begin the move to Kensington Palace by the end of the week," he said, giving Hermione a reassuring glance that suggested this was a relief to him. "Mother and Father will be returning to Clarence House shortly after."

"Narcissa is coming to London?" Hermione asked, surprised, and Lucius nodded.

"We felt it would be most convenient," Lucius said. "There will be several joint engagements in London throughout the summer."

"An odd way to step back from public life," Hermione observed before feeling her cheeks heat slightly, noticing the way Snape's brow furrowed in apparent disapproval. "I just meant—" She cleared her throat. "I just hope Narcissa doesn't feel she's on display, that's all."

"Actually, I think for once she feels she is being included," said Lucius. He seemed perfectly comfortable with Snape's presence in the room, almost as if the man weren't there at all. "Though I hope I may confide in you that she has made it quite clear she will make no appearances without you."

It took a moment for Hermione to register that Lucius was speaking directly to her. "Me?" she echoed, surprised. "Draco and me, you mean?"

"One would think," Draco said with a chuckle, "but no, just you, love." Draco glanced down at her, half-smiling. "It seems that now the two of you've gone through the trenches together, she'll not go to war without you."

Hermione glanced at Snape, wondering what he knew about Narcissa's imprisonment of Rita Skeeter on the eve of her wedding to Draco. By the looks of it, everything.

What else had he learned about her in the time she'd spent not even noticing him?

She shifted in her seat. "Well, that's… I'm surprised, definitely, but happy to hear it. I've always liked your mother." _In a strange, incredibly uncomfortable way_, she didn't add, though presumably Draco already knew that.

"There's no denying Mother's always liked you," Draco replied happily. For a moment, Hermione felt a glimpse of optimism; she had claimed Draco's family for her own no less than a few days ago, and now, in some karmic glimpse of favorable reprisal, Draco's family was claiming her back—in its stuffy, cumbersome way, but it was doing so nonetheless.

"Narcissa has always been a gifted tactician," said Snape tonelessly, rupturing Hermione's moment of contentment. "No doubt she recognizes that any appearance between the former Princess of Wales and her successor will inevitably be a study in contrasts. Better to present the best possible face for the family."

"Ah." Hermione felt her posture stiffen at the passive correction—which Draco must have recognized, because he set a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Of course."

"We can discuss the logistics later," Draco said, dropping a kiss to the top of her head in a motion that was as reflexive as it was kind. "Father, will you be staying for dinner?"

"No, I think not," said Lucius, buttoning his suit jacket. Snape, obviously well-rehearsed in Lucius' behaviors, did the same, preparing to rise to his feet the instant Lucius expressed his intention to do so. "I'll return to the Manor tonight. But thank you for the invitation," Lucius said to Draco, appearing to mean it. "I'm pleased to see you're not too resentful of the headache I've caused you."

"Not at all," Draco replied. Three words, and thus a very, very small container for what Hermione knew to be lifelong relief. Ironically, this was the first time Draco did _not_ resent his father. Hermione knew he not only respected Lucius' choice, but was deeply grateful for what it meant to his mother, just as she knew Lucius was not only grateful for the small indication that Draco would have wanted him to stay for dinner, but also for the implication they might soon ease the suffering that had been their perpetual rift.

But all they exchanged was a nod.

"Dobby will be in touch," said Lucius, departing, and Snape bowed to Draco and Hermione before following, leaving the two of them alone together in the room.

"Well," Hermione sighed, turning to Draco. "I have to find myself a Snape, huh?"

Draco nodded, resting his hands on her hips. "And quickly, I'm afraid. There are some… unfortunate rumors going around."

"That nobody wants to work with me, you mean?" Hermione joked, but when Draco didn't immediately respond, she groaned in horror. "Oh my god—_seriously_, that's what they're saying? That's mortifying!"

"It's absolute nonsense," Draco assured her. "But unfortunately your name is one of the most clickable things on the internet right now. Any little detail about you—from the time you wake up in the morning to who gets chosen to work on your staff—is enough to go viral."

"Ugh, these messy benches. Fine." Hermione gave a theatrical sigh. "And I'm supposed to choose someone that's like… fancy?"

Draco laughed, tucking her hair behind one ear. "Suitable, yes. Fancy I'll leave to your discretion."

"Okay, but won't they find it kind of… um." She squirmed a little. "Demeaning, I guess, to work for me? I mean because it's basically an administrative position," she said quickly. "It's like, office manager, but for…" Forks, the next word that came out of her mouth was going to sound _severely_ underwhelming. "Me," she concluded lamely, feigning a look of Pansy-esque disdain.

"You," Draco reminded her, nudging her chin up to meet her reluctant gaze, "are Hermione, Princess of Wales." He kissed her lightly, scouring her face. "To work for you is an honor."

"I mean, you _say_ that," Hermione grumbled, "but—"

"Yes, I do say that, and I'm the Prince of Wales. The least you could do is take me at my word." He leaned forward and kissed her again, undoing any possible formality by sticking his tongue into her mouth, making her laugh. "I've had Snape draw up some candidates for you," he said, nudging her nose with his. "The two of you can coordinate and take meetings as soon as tomorrow."

"Oh," Hermione said, her face falling at the thought of being alone with Snape. "I thought he was just your private secretary?"

Draco shook his head. "He'll manage things primarily through me if you prefer, but no, he works for both of us equally. Do you really dislike him that much?"

She hesitated, then allowed her expression to communicate a response for her.

"Well." He laughed, kissing her again. "Fine. You ought to get familiar with Percy, anyway," he said, looking as if he were mentally consulting his diary for what needed to be done next. "I'd refer to him as Weasley like we do with Snape, but unfortunately that's much too unspecific—"

"Percy? Oh good, Harry likes him," Hermione recalled, relieved.

"Oh, no," Draco corrected, "Harry doesn't _like_ him. But Percy's the ambitious sort and the Weasleys have a reputable name, sort of. Well… never mind. Regardless," he continued, recalibrating himself, "we may as well sort out whether you prefer Percy's bedside manner to Snape's." He paused. "Though, I still don't fully understand your opposition," he qualified, with his usual masterly diplomacy.

Hermione shrugged. "Personalities, I guess?"

That, and Harry's own visceral reaction certainly hadn't helped things.

"Well, I won't argue that. He's not particularly warm, I'll give you that much, though I suppose I'm rather used to it." Draco shook himself, suddenly brightening. "But is this anything to be discussing at the moment? We've been married less than a month," he announced, leaning forward with a growl. "I should be devouring you at all hours, not scheduling interviews."

"That's true," Hermione agreed, arms fitting easily around his neck. "Traditionally new husbands are expected to perform all sorts of sexual acrobatics, I hear. I think I read that somewhere in the guidebook."

"My god, to think I've been so remiss," Draco said, pinning her hips to the desk and sliding gradually to his knees. "I'm so terribly sorry," he murmured to the direction of her underwear, carefully smoothing his hands below her skirt. "I hate to think you've been neglected—"

"Draco," Hermione said with a laugh, "anyone could walk in at any time." She smoothed her fingers through his hair, gesturing over her shoulder to the study's open door.

"Well, I'm out of sight," he reminded her, gesturing to the desk that stood between them and the door. "If anyone tries to come in, just tell them you're meditating or something."

"Why," she sighed facetiously, "so I can be the hippie foreigner that no proper Englishman wants to work for?"

Draco glanced up at her, grey eyes wide, and nudged her knees apart.

"Fine. Then tell them the truth," he said with a rare display of wickedness, "that you're the commoner who bedded a royal and you'll be damned if you stop now."

And because there was no arguing that, Hermione simply reached back and gripped the desk with a stifled moan, inviting him to do his worst.

* * *

So things are good, right? _Mostly_ good—in the same sense that royal news is _mostly_ nonsense, wherein the 10% of uncomfortable truth is always the tricky bit to navigate. Admittedly, my English Literature degree didn't include any helpful courses on how to run a massive staff or appease a constituency, nor did Shakespeare have shirts to say about weaponizing social media. Though, he did know a thing or two about blood feuds and tyrants and mobs, so maybe I should have seen Umbridge coming? And certainly the Dursleys.

So anyway, I guess never let people tell you an English degree is useless is all I can say about that.

* * *

_**a/n: **__Yes hello, the gang is back! I promise this will be shorter than the original, though already the chapter length has gotten away from me—my apologies, but also, you knew it was a snake when you picked it up. Unknown as of now how many chapters there will be, but you can expect weekly updates. Thanks for being here!_


	2. Be Gracious If It Kills You

**Chapter 2: Be Gracious If It Kills You**

_** RitaSkeeter  
**__Replying to __** MalfoyRoyal**_

_When are we going to hear from Her Royal Highness regarding her decision to attend #USAStateVisit?_

_3:25 PM - 22 Aug 2018  
__**450**_ _Retweets __**62K **__Likes_

_** gilderoylockhartofficial  
**__Replying to __** MalfoyRoyal **__and __** RitaSkeeter**_

_have u not heard? LOL 'exclusive' prophet reportng_

_3:28 PM - 22 Aug 2018  
__**573**_ _Retweets __**20K **__Likes_

_** LadyBellatrix**__  
Replying to __** MalfoyRoyal **__and __** RitaSkeeter**_

_HG has already shown the world that she is NOT an advocate for women. Ladies, look elsewhere for strength & dignity. HG is a member of The Firm, full stop. _

_3:41 PM - 22 Aug 2018  
__**1K**_ _Retweets __**79K **__Likes_

Oh, did you not think Bellatrix would be on Twitter? Silly you, of course she is. I'm told she has a new book coming out as well, so just keep in mind that not everyone gets what they deserve. Sometimes they get a platform instead.

In case anyone (me) was wondering how the royal journaling was going, it's not totally unhelpful. True, it's not the same as actually being heard (I would love, for example, to be able to reply to these forking benches and remind them that the tweet they're all currently replying to is about something _actually_ important, i.e. a hospital that recently expanded its mental health services to the underserved) but it _is_ somewhat meditative. Not that I don't have actual people to talk to—in fact I seem to be inundated with those, so having time to myself is very nearly peaceful.

And truthfully, I have to take what little peace I can get.

* * *

_June 26, 2018  
Kensington Palace, London, England_

There was a sharp rap at the door that Hermione had already learned to identify as belonging to Percy Weasley, their new communications secretary. Draco seemed to feel ambivalently about Percy, finding him helpful enough and therefore forgettable, but Hermione felt strongly the opposite. In Hermione's mind, Percy's 'forgettability' was his main strength—it meant he did his job so well that she never had to stop and wonder if she needed anything from him.

"Call for you," he said, popping his head into her office. He was currently doing the job of her as-yet undetermined private secretary in addition to his own job of coordinating their office's communications. While Hermione wished she could simply… _keep_ having him do that, according to Draco 'twas not to be.

"It's the vulture," Percy added in warning, and Hermione groaned.

"Seriously? Now?"

"Shall I tell Lady Gemma to wait?" he asked her, adjusting his glasses. It was a tic of his, she was noticing. Whenever Percy considered it wise to do something, he always indicated it by shifting his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Fine, I'll take the call," Hermione grudgingly conceded. "Better she's on the phone with me than barraging me on the internet somewhere. Lady Gemma can wait five—_five_, Percy," she added emphatically, "make sure I'm off the phone in _five_ minutes."

Percy gave the nod that meant he felt she had chosen correctly. "Yes, Ma'am," he said, retreating from the threshold.

"Percy, I told you, it's Hermi- and he's gone," she sighed in his absence. She turned to her phone's blinking light and braced herself before transferring the call. "This is Hermione," she said, lifting the receiver to her ear.

"Ah, Your Royal Highness, a pleasure," purred Rita through the phone. "I won't take too much of your time—"

"You have four minutes and fifty seconds," Hermione confirmed, having already hit start on her cell phone timer.

"—but I thought it time I received an update," Rita continued on, unfazed. "How goes the search for Chief of Staff to the Princess of Wales?"

Hermione paused for a quick calculation, wondering which aspects of the truth would be worth sharing. Part of her deal to keep Rita off their backs was to feed her pieces of information from time to time; to do otherwise was to invite little snipes of guerilla warfare, like Rita's 'retrospective' last month about Kensington Palace that was primarily a showcase of its extravagance. The Malfoy Royal social media accounts, newly run by Percy, had gotten an upsurge in trolls for the last week on account of their 'lavish' spending, as if the retrospective wasn't quite obviously proof of a centuries-old foundation. Their private apartments and offices within the palace hadn't housed anyone since before World War II, leaving Hermione and Draco to occupy only a fraction of the available room until the renovations were completed—but of course, these were not the sort of details taxpayers enjoyed hearing.

Fair enough, Hermione supposed.

"Lady Gemma Farley and Lady Flora Carrow are both options," she said. There, an exclusive tidbit.

"Mm," said Rita, and against her better judgment, Hermione curled a fist.

"What's 'mm'?"

"Oh Hermione, you know I have no opinions! I'm merely taking notes," Rita said sweetly.

Hermione glanced down at the timer, setting her jaw when she observed the minutes still remaining. "What is it, Rita?"

"Nothing! It is, of course, very interesting—"

"_What_ is interesting?"

"Don't be silly, Hermione, I haven't the faintest idea what you mean."

"Rita," Hermione growled, "if you're just going to turn around and print something inflammatory—"

"_Inflammatory_?" Rita echoed, aghast. "My dear, I have a responsibility to my readers to devote myself to truth, as you well know—"

"What's wrong with Gemma Farley and Flora Carrow?" Hermione demanded. "They're both plenty accomplished."

"Oh, without a doubt," Rita sang. "Indeed, a perfect word choice: _accomplished_. I'll most likely use it myself."

Hermione glanced at the timer: sixty-five seconds, but she might as well cut it off now. "Fine, print whatever you'd like, Rita. If you're just going to be diffic-"

"I just find it very interesting, my dear," Rita said coolly, "that someone such as yourself, who claims to champion the rights of women—not to mention one who comes from such _very_ humble stock—"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, my parents are dentists, get to the point—"

"Well, Hermione, let's be frank, shall we? I think you and I both know that Lady Flora's name precedes her, even if her dismal performance at university reflects little to no reputable skill. Her experience is primarily as the head of… her uncle's pet charity, is it? Ah yes, it is. But of course what's a little nepotism between friends? And as for Lady Gemma, she is certainly… Well, she's a lovely girl, very poised; that much is clear. All that wealth must do _wonders_ for her skin, and certainly all that poise would come from an upbringing of the most… What's the word? It's on the tip of my tongue… Ah yes! _Expensive_, that's the one—"

Ugh, for fork's sake. "You're going to print that I'm social climbing nouveau riche again, aren't you?" Hermione muttered.

"Absolutely yes," confirmed Rita happily. "Ta, then!"

Rita hung up the phone precisely as Hermione's phone timer went off, suggesting Rita had strategically waited until the end of their call to deliver her verdict. In the exact same moment, Percy reappeared in the doorway, delivering another sharp rap against Hermione's open door.

"Shall I send in Lady Gemma now?" he prompted, observing with one of his approving tics—the light touch of his right hand to his left cufflink—that she had already gotten off the phone.

"Erm… yes, thank you. Oh, but Percy?" Hermione called after him, pausing him successfully this time. "What do you think of her?" she asked, as Percy froze in place with apparent bemusement. "Not compared to Lady Flora or anything. Just… in general."

"Well, I think she is certainly very accomplished," Percy parsed out slowly.

Great. Wonderful. "Were you by chance _told_ to say that?" guessed Hermione, who had a feeling that someone (cough, Snape) was starting to invade their entire household's vocabulary.

In response Percy's expression went perfectly blank, which was a sure sign of a lie. "Of course not, Ma'am. Lady Gemma is very accomplished. And quite poised," he added as an afterthought.

Bollocks almighty, they needed a new lexicon. "Just send her in," Hermione sighed, making a mental note to ask Daphne for some better recommendations later.

* * *

Three days passed before Hermione was able to see Daphne in the flesh; Daphne Nott, now a boutique but fast-growing house of couture, had been polishing up its choices for some obscure, fake future time—specifically the Fall/Winter 2019 season, which Hermione couldn't even begin to consider given that it was currently summer. It was like Daphne (and Theo, whenever he was wearing his Daphne Nott board member hat instead of his Transfiguration Project one) now lived in a completely different and somewhat divinatory timeline, chattering about the impending prevalence of military green jackets at the same time she was dressing Hermione in fashionable summer prints.

"Sorry," Daphne offered breathlessly, falling onto the sofa beside Hermione upon hanging up the phone with her production manager. "I'm trying to partner with a mill in Italy that uses one-hundred percent recycled water, but of course I _then_ have to offset the carbon footprint from shipping," she groaned, "which is causing all sorts of headaches for everyone involved. We really ought to find one more local."

"Well, it's very responsible of you to seek one out," said Hermione, who tucked that information away. One of Draco's pet issues, inherited from Lucius, was climate change and industrial waste reduction; no doubt he'd want to address it during his one of his impending calls to arms. "Just another reason you're absolutely going to win Womenswear Designer of the Year this year," Hermione added with a nudge.

Daphne gave her a thin smile. "Surreal as it is to admit, it's not entirely out of the realm of possibility. I did design a certain now-infamous wedding dress," she preened, twisting so that her legs were outstretched in Hermione's lap.

"You certainly did. To the dress that launched a thousand dupes," offered Hermione, toasting her with an invisible glass. Daphne blinked in recognition and shifted, abruptly attempting to stand.

"My god, I haven't even _poured _us anything—"

"Tone down the hostess syndrome, Daph, it's just me," Hermione cut in quickly, beating Daphne to her feet. "I'll grab it. Anything open?"

"Not a thing, I'm afraid," Daphne called after her. "I've been so tired lately that one glass puts me out of commission." She sank deeper into the sofa as Hermione fished out an unopened bottle of very pale rosé, figuring Daphne might enjoy a drink that matched her blouse. "I think there's something in there from Astoria—"

"Yep, I found it," Hermione confirmed, emerging back into the living room to pour them each a glass. "How is Astoria, by the way?"

"Oh, I hardly know," grumbled Daphne. "She never tells me a thing, though I believe Alex is away a lot." Alexander Poliakoff, Astoria's husband of less than a year, was a hedge fund manager, whatever that meant.

"I thought Alex worked primarily in London?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. Astoria seems deliberately vague on the subject." Daphne sat up again, reaching greedily for her glass as Hermione handed it over. "I don't suppose you'd mind if I invited her to that Transfiguration luncheon this weekend?"

"Astoria? Not at all," said Hermione. "Though you'll have to warn her Pansy's in the overly sentimental phase of gestation."

"Nothing more frightening than that," Daphne agreed, closing her eyes as she took a sip. "Ah," she exhaled luxuriously, "magnificent."

Hermione settled herself on the sofa, propping her legs up in a mirror of Daphne's. "I take it work is good, though?"

"It is, very," Daphne confirmed. "I actually quite love my new pieces." She took another sip, glancing idyllically into nothing before returning her attention to Hermione. "And I'm relieved we thought to do another gown for you ahead of time," she added, as if the 'we' in question had ever involved Hermione in any way; the genius when it came to diplomatic dressing was entirely Daphne's. "Astounding that we were magically prepared for a ceremonial appearance so soon after the wedding."

"For the investiture, you mean?" asked Hermione. Daphne had gone on a bit of a sprint before the wedding, which meant Hermione already had a pale pink dress that would be suitable for Draco's ceremonial induction as Prince of Wales. It wasn't going to be as formal as Lucius' investiture—following the expense of Draco and Hermione's wedding, it was a bit impractical to pull out all the stops a second time in a single year—but given that Wales was the most solidly monarchist area of the country at the moment, it was worth making an official appearance.

Daphne nodded. "Though it does mean I'll be a bit hard-pressed for the Bagman visit." She paused, glancing expectantly at Hermione. "If that's still something you intend to do, that is."

"Unfortunately I'm not sure there's a way out of it," Hermione grumbled at the reminder. "Bagman _is_ president, much as I wish he weren't. And even if snubbing him on the basis of extreme personal aversion might be a bold option for _this_ dinner," she sighed, "how many state visits will there be in the future with leaders I don't like? It's a difficult precedent."

"Well, I don't envy you having to make that decision," Daphne said, shuddering into her glass. "If Prince Lucifer were still the heir it'd be one thing, but with Draco so close to the throne—"

"Oh no, not you two as well," groaned Theo, walking into the living room with Prince Lucius (the dog) at his heels. "I've only just escaped Wood's latest torrential downpour on the subject."

"Oh, how is Oliver? I miss him," said Hermione fondly, before pausing to reconsider. "Sort of."

"Wood's absolutely maniacal and he sends his love. Not that I ever bother arguing with him," Theo added, returning to the subject of politics. He slipped himself unobtrusively behind Daphne on the sofa, securing an arm around her and extending his interminable legs in Hermione's direction while Prince Lucius took up residence in the tartan dog bed beside the hearth. "Not everyone has that kind of time, and besides—" He plucked Daphne's glass from her hand, taking a sip. "Even I'm aware the mob of public opinion is positively Florentine. A zealous wind in any direction can knock them all asunder."

"You say '_even_ you' as if you're not Draco's go-to advisor," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes. "We all know it's your opinion he values most, which means you must support his decision to attend, however grudgingly."

"I think, unfortunately, it would do more harm not to," Theo confirmed, kissing his wife's forehead apologetically when she shot him a look of disagreement. "Public sentiment is very against Draco's family right now, and very pro… whatever Scrimgeour is. Or worse," he said with a shudder, "Umbridge."

"Who's that?" asked Daphne, retrieving her glass from Theo's hand.

"Oh, just another dreadful conservative MP," grumbled Hermione. "Scrimgeour tried to appoint her somewhere in foreign trade to keep her quiet, but it obviously didn't work. All she's done is slander foreign governments and speak in highly prejudicial terms about the dangers of immigrants—all very Bagman-esque, actually," she registered belatedly.

"It's the toad lady," Theo clarified to Daphne, who had continued to stare blankly at Hermione.

"Oh god, the _toad_ lady? Terrible," said Daphne with a shudder, and Hermione sighed.

"Okay, optics aside, Daph—"

"How am I supposed to put aside the optics? _Look_ at her, Hermione—"

"But still, we can't exactly make it about _looks,_ can we? It's a bit, you know, unfeminist and all that—"

"The optics are bad, the inside is bad, everything's bad, politics is rotten and so is she," Theo summarized for them both, thieving Daphne's wine glass from her hand a second time. "Rumor is she's going to return to Parliament soon."

"Well, let's hope it goes the way of most rumors in this country and simply dissipates into nothing," Hermione said, before suddenly frowning with a very delayed realization. "Aren't you eligible for a seat in the House of Lords, Theo?"

"My goodness, I should hope not," said Daphne, before frowning to herself in apparent reconsideration. "Though you could hardly do worse than anyone who currently holds a seat in Parliament, Nott."

"Fear not, Lady Wife, I haven't the slightest interest," Theo assured Daphne smoothly. "Proximity to Draco and Harry is more than enough politicking for a lifetime, and anyway, nobody wants the dullest of the Bad Lads involved in the ruling of this kingdom. Though," he added as an afterthought, "it might kill my father." A pause. "Which is obviously neither here nor there," he mused.

"Well, it was mostly a curiosity, not a suggestion," Hermione said with a laugh. "By the sounds of it you're plenty busy."

"Oh, indeed," Theo confirmed. "Your Minerva is a stern taskmistress. And given the volume of emails I've gotten at all sorts of odd hours, possibly also vampiric."

"You're not going to leave me for her, are you?" asked Daphne, twisting around to glance accusingly at Theo.

"Not to worry, my sweets." He dropped another kiss to her forehead. "The woman would consume me in one sitting and I've no pressing wish to die, except at your benevolent hands."

"Excellent," Daphne confirmed, exchanging a genuinely devoted smile with him before abruptly nudging Hermione's knee with her bare foot. "By the way, what was it you came over to discuss again?"

But Hermione, who was quite comfortable and very warm and deeply pleased to see her best friends snuggling together on the couch like in every single daydream she'd ever had for them throughout college, couldn't for the life of her remember.

* * *

"You'll just have to choose someone before the investiture," said Draco, who was distractedly signing off on something with Snape in regards to their kitchen. "I'd like Percy to start a few new projects and he can't until you're settled. You're sure you didn't like Gemma Farley?" he asked tangentially. "I've always found her relatively pleasant, if memory serves."

"Gemma was fine," Hermione said underwhelmingly. "Very like someone you would date, actually," she added, which Draco recognized at first glance was not entirely a compliment.

"You know, come to think of it, it's possible we might have," he said, frowning into nothing for a moment as he handed off whatever it was he was currently in the process of signing, and Snape cleared his throat quietly.

"You did," Snape provided in a low voice, accepting the paperwork from Draco's hand. "During the summer between your first and second years at Eton."

"Oh." Draco frowned. "Hm. Did I?"

"Microscopically," Snape qualified. "Your father encouraged it, so naturally it ended within the week."

"Well, I'll admit that was a rather muddled time." To Hermione's arched brow, Draco stifled a laugh. "I was a prince _and_ a teenage boy once, Hermione," he said, sliding an arm around her waist and giving her one of his less saintly glances. "In Gemma's case it was nothing more than a flurry of juvenile flirtation," he qualified with a shrug, "but generally speaking, a monk I was not."

"That wasn't around the same time as Liquid Tuesday, was it?" joked Hermione, thinking that Snape had already left the room, but unfortunately she had miscalculated.

"Three years prior to Liquid Tuesday," Snape said, bowing to them both. "May I help with anything further?"

"No, I think we can rely on our own faulty memories from here on," replied Draco with a laugh, appearing to take Snape's alarmingly intimate knowledge of his romantic past as humorous rather than off-putting. "What? Oh, Hermione," he sighed, tilting her chin up for a kiss once Snape had left the room. "That face isn't about Gemma, is it? I swear I haven't seen her in about a decade, at least—"

"God, no, not Gemma." Pansy had already informed Hermione sometime during their first year at Hogwarts of everyone Draco had ever slept with previously, which had not included Lady Gemma Farley and had been a very interesting/traumatizing way to spend an afternoon. "But isn't it a bit odd that _Snape_ remembers her?"

"I wish it were considerably odder than it is, unfortunately," Draco replied with an amicable sigh. "You of all people already know the Prince of Darkness had a lovely habit of spying on me while I was at school—which is half the reason we can never treat Snape badly," he added. "As far as I know, he's been keeping an eye on all my illicit activities since I was in dungarees."

That was certainly a valid point; someone _had_ been reporting to Lucius for as long as Hermione could remember on anything Draco did when he was out of sight, though she'd never thought to wonder who it was.

"Did you _have_ illicit activities in dungarees?" she asked him. "How impressive of you."

"Well I was friends with Theo, if you'll recall, so probably. Snape would know, if you want to call him back in," he added, and Hermione laughed into his kiss, squirming away.

"I take it Harry already spoke to you, then?"

"God, yes," Draco said, pulling a face. "He won't _stop_ talking, even though I told him anyone with eyes could see that Diggory's the best thing to happen to United since Giggs—"

"I meant about Snape." Hermione leaned back, frowning at Draco's look of bemusement. "Come to think of it, Pansy never mentioned it either. Actually," she realized, suddenly feeling a wave of foreboding nausea, "I haven't heard from Pansy in a few days."

"Ah, yes, well. She's… not thrilled with me." Draco gave her a thin smile. "I think she may be taking her own side on this one."

"Wait, so Pansy's not talking to you, but Harry… is?" echoed Hermione. "What on earth did you do?"

"Believe it or not, Pansy can be somewhat difficult to please," Draco said wryly.

"Maybe so, but she's not _unreasonable_," Hermione retorted. "If you have reason to think she's upset, I doubt it came out of nowhere."

"Well, all I can reasonably grasp is that it appears Snape was—"

"Sorry, so sorry," came Percy's panicked voice, startling them out of their conversation. "Sir, Ma'am, begging your pardon immensely. I did try to stop them—"

"Percy, please, you're more than welcome to call me Draco," said the 'Sir' in question, before being abruptly and inhospitably interrupted by Hortense, who breezed past Percy's look of utter helplessness and strolled into the room.

"Hello, Draco, and oh good, the sturdy one's here too," Hortense observed, ostensibly referring to Hermione. "Heavens, we haven't seen you since I lent Narcissa my abduction kit—"

"Which, by the way, she never returned," added Thibaut, swanning in behind his sister and setting an empty branch of grapes in Percy's unsuspecting hands. "Not that it matters, obviously, we have plenty, but some have sentimental value."

"That particular one was once used on the Queen of France, according to Basile," Hortense informed them, "though he's been known to embellish from time to time. A consequence of low iron, I'm told."

"Not to interrupt this lovely and very discomfiting anecdote, but we just saw each other yesterday," Hermione pointed out with her usual inability to stop herself. While wiser instincts reminded her that engaging with Hortense and Thibaut was always a fruitless situation, something lamentable about her personality compelled her to correct their inaccuracies. "You told us we were being too quiet, remember?"

"Yes, and you've clearly done nothing to improve the situation," Hortense hotly accused. "How are we to know you remain alive and with us when you've held almost no bacchanals? I've never in all my lives encountered such an inhospitable secrecy—"

"And seeing as we're almost positive she was a Roman senator in at least one of them," Thibaut contributed, "I'm sure you'll agree it's only reasonable she'd get a tad jumpy around the Ides of March."

"It's July," said Draco, before frowning. "And are you implying she may have had _multiple_ lives as Roman senators?"

"Just because it's not knife season doesn't make a lick of difference," said Hortense, "and frankly, your failure to grasp the multiverse has always been among the top four most unrealistic things about you, Draco."

"Certainly top seven," confirmed Thibaut. "Though it does fit neatly into some of the others. For example—"

"It's very difficult for me to understand why they have apartments here," Hermione said in an undertone to Draco, who shook his head in conspiratorial agreement. "Is it simply because they're family?"

"Apparently they're both highly decorated war veterans," he murmured back. "Hortense is a dame, believe it or not."

"What, like a female knight? What was her contribution?"

"Some sort of vaccine? Truthfully I'm worried about what that means for any future global pandemics—"

"—but the _point_, murder aside, is the lack of commitment," Hortense concluded, having apparently been speaking over their muted conference. "Enthusiasm for one's vocation is key, Draco, and I cannot be more emphatic about this. It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."

"Sorry, what?" said Draco.

"Do not pity the dead, Draco," Thibaut said. "The veil is thin."

"Is that a threat?" asked Draco.

"It's certainly not a seance," scoffed Hortense. "That's a tomorrow project."

"You're talking to ghosts?" asked Hermione.

"You mean that one?" Thibaut clarified, frowning in contemplation. "He seems corporeal enough. Only moderately ghastly."

"That's not a ghost, it's Percy," said Draco.

"Mm, of course it is," Thibaut replied, before turning to whisper doubtfully, "Fear of a name increases fear of a thing itself," into Hermione's ear.

"Well, I'm sure we can arrange something," Draco said, fighting a laugh as Hermione took a pointed step away. "A bit of purposeful noise, perhaps? Cannon fire on the hour?"

Hortense, suspiciously: "Signifying death or life?"

Draco: "What does a cannon usually symbolize?"

Thibaut and Hortense in unison: "Tuesday."

Draco: "Well, something else, then."

Hermione, to Draco: "Why are you entertaining this?"

Draco, to Hermione: "Because I'm genuinely afraid of them. Aren't you?"

"If I may make a suggestion," Percy attempted from the doorway, raising Thibaut's empty twig of grapes as if it were in fact a plentiful olive branch. "Some sort of messaging system, perhaps? Smoke signals are of course very Catholic," he mused to himself, nudging his glasses up his nose. "Potentially _too_ Vatican—"

"Excellent, the poltergeist has it," declared Thibaut, whom Hermione belatedly recalled had always been accommodating of anything papal. "What did you say your name was? Peeves?"

"No, actually," Percy said with a frown, "it's—"

"PEEVES IT IS. Goodbye," announced Hortense, slipping something into Percy's suit jacket before suddenly trotting out in a whirl of heavy satin. (Hermione had not bothered to notice earlier that Hortense was either in costume as some sort of steampunk railroad conductor or had simply been feeling saucy that morning.) Thibaut followed, taking Percy's face in both hands and kissing him soundly on both cheeks before departing.

"Er, Sir, my apologies," Percy said in their wake, looking intensely frazzled as he withdrew an old-timey glass vial labeled _ARSENIC_ from his pocket. "Shall I… put this somewhere?"

"First of all, it's Draco," said Draco once again, "and secondly, how on earth did you learn to wrangle the likes of my cousins?"

"Oh, I have twin brothers," said Percy, his voice relatively toneless. "They, too, would be easily distracted by the novelty of colored smoke—though, if my brothers are any comparable measure, then I imagine the distraction will last no more than three days before they tire of it. I'll draft a list of possible next steps and have them on your desk no later than this evening."

"Well, that's… considerably more work than necessary, I hope," said Hermione, though Percy's glance in return suggested otherwise. "In the meantime, try not to consume any poison—"

"Evidence suggests it's actually a rather good scotch," said Draco, sniffing the bottle from Percy's hand, "which might mean I'm now regrettably invested in a very high stakes game of lethal substances roulette."

"I'm happy to sample it first," offered Percy solemnly, which prompted Hermione to swat the battle out of his hand.

"_Men_, honestly—"

"Percy," Draco said with a chuckle, observing Hermione's expression of dismay. "Might I have a moment with my wife? You're welcome to clear out and send everyone home for the day."

Percy nodded. "Of course, S-"

"Don't do it, Percy."

Percy's mouth twitched with the trials of informality. "Draco, then. And—"

He glanced longingly at Hermione, hoping she'd stop him.

"Go on," she coaxed him.

He resigned himself with a silent sigh. "Hermione," Percy finished uncomfortably, before bowing and slipping out from the room.

"Wonder why he's not on Pansy's staff," Draco mused to himself, taking a step closer to Hermione, who was still busy kicking the vial of scotch and/or poison under the desk. "He's got such a fervent passion for rules."

"Speaking of Pansy," Hermione remembered, brandishing a finger at Draco to remind him she hadn't forgotten. "Are you going to tell me what you did to upset her?"

"Well, primarily I refused to sack my chief of staff." Draco leaned forward to kiss Hermione's accusatory finger, brushing his lips across it gently. "But in any case, I'm sure her silence is highly temporary."

"It better be," Hermione grumbled, folding her arms over her chest. "The only thing I hate more than Pansy's nagging is Pansy's silence. It's like her version of my mom saying she's not mad, she's disappoint-"

"Sweetheart." Draco slid his arms around her, cutting her off. "You know, I asked Percy to leave us alone so we could discuss two things that are _not_ Pansy-related."

"Well, if you insist," she sighed, leaning against the desk behind her. "Am I about to be scolded, then?"

Draco's mouth quirked. "Only if you'd like to be."

"Well, go on, I suppose."

"You're sure?"

"Why not?"

He stepped in closer, grey gaze alighting promisingly on hers.

"Hermione," he murmured, his voice a low thrum of vibration between them. "You've got to select a private secretary within the week, do you understand? That," he added with a little slip of his tongue along the length of her ear, "is an order."

"And if I don't follow orders?" she mused, intending to be coquettish, but she was hardly given the opportunity. The moment she'd finished speaking, Draco had grasped her waist with both hands and set her firmly atop the desk, startling her into a sudden half-gasp.

"Hire someone," he said with a motion to fit himself between her legs, "or I'll be forced to do more than scold."

"I see," Hermione exhaled, watching with a shiver of delight as Draco began unfastening the knot of his tie with unholy deliberation. "And if I should choose someone… unsuitable?"

"You continue to test me," he observed aloud, depositing the tie on the ground before slipping out of his jacket, removing his cufflinks one at a time. "Am I to assume you're a glutton for punishment?"

"I like rewards too," she murmured, slipping one finger under the waistband of his trousers to tug him closer. "Do you have any of those for me?"

"Maybe one or two." He eased his hips against hers, circling her neck delicately with the fingers of one hand before nudging her chin up with his thumb. "Entirely dependent on good behavior," he warned before leaning into kiss her, pausing just shy of her lips.

"And the other thing?" she asked him, reveling in that decadent hair's breadth of anticipation.

His eyes traced the features of her lips. "What other thing?"

"You said there were two things you wanted to discuss."

"Oh, I simply had a question." This time his lips grazed hers, his thumb dropping to stroke the hollow of her throat.

"Yes?"

The second pulse of his lips, more intense than the first, made it clear that office hours had officially ended. It was an urgent kiss, a promise. An invitation that was followed by a summons, deep and commanding and sure.

"Come to bed with me, wife."

Now that was a far more pleasurable task. "That's not a question, Draco."

"Is it not? Silly me. Poor phrasing," he said, though he made no reparatory efforts. Instead he plucked her up from the desk and she went without argument, depositing his shirt somewhere in the corridor as they made their way up the stairs.

* * *

"Of course I'm not cross with you, Hermione," Pansy said at their luncheon.

Under Theo's direction, the Transfiguration Project had taken off in its mission to create functional, architecturally remarkable public spaces; so much so that it had a number of prestigious donors, allowing Hermione to add it to her burgeoning list of royal patronages. Pansy, whose art causes had some overlap, had arrived alongside Hermione, prompting a barrage of photography they'd later see all over the internet.

"What on earth would I be upset about?" Pansy scoffed at her, one hand resting with incongruous tenderness on her belly. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, good," Hermione said, relieved. "I'm glad you're not still angry with Draco—"

"Oh no, I'm utterly furious with him," Pansy said flippantly, "but let's not discuss anything so unpleasant right now, shall we? I've some thoughts about your staff, though you're not going to like it."

Hermione blinked. "Wait, Pans, what do you mean you're—"

"Now, hear me out: Lady Susan Bones," Pansy began, which was enough to distract Hermione briefly from their very pressing subject of discussion.

"What? Pans, absolutely _not_—"

"Your aversion to her is baseless, Hermione. We all know this."

"Yes, but—"

"Oh, thank god, hi," said Daphne, diving through the crowd to reach them. "If I have to meet another one of Theo's donors I think I might spontaneously die. I swear," she muttered in a low voice, "ninety percent of what Theo and I do for a living is just asking people for more money in new and inventive ways—"

"That's all anything is," said Astoria wanly, materializing at Daphne's side. She was wearing a tailored grey dress that was eminently suitable for the occasion with an interesting pair of color-blocked pumps, looking altogether elegant, long-legged, and… drained.

They had already greeted each other previously, as Hermione had been formally welcomed (curtsies and all, of which Daphne's and Astoria's were still much better than hers) upon entry to the venue. Still, she hadn't quite adjusted to how different Astoria looked from the last time she'd seen her, and she doubted it had anything to do with the event.

"Oh, Astoria," said Pansy. "My goodness, you look so… thin."

"Thank you," said Astoria, appearing not to find any fault in Pansy's underwhelming assertion. "I've recently gotten quite into running."

"Running?" Hermione echoed, noticing that by the expression on Daphne's face, that seemed to be part of Daphne's concern for her sister.

"Oh, here and there, off and on. This is quite unexpected, isn't it?" said Astoria, glancing around the room. "I had no idea Theodore would be involved in something so tasteful."

"Yes, it's a surprise to us all," said Pansy drily, just as someone stepped into Hermione's periphery.

"Pardon me, excuse me—"

"Padma?" asked Hermione unthinkingly, pausing the half-familiar woman who was slipping past her.

"Oh, Herm- sorry, Your Royal Highness," said Padma, self-consciously slipping into a curtsy. "I wondered if I might run into you here."

"Really, there's no need for formality," said Hermione, a bit embarrassed by the idea that anyone she'd known in her previous life should ever have to bow to her. "I mean, I haven't forgotten the time you lent me a tampon in that medieval poetry class," she clarified hastily, earning herself a silencing glare from Pansy as a result of her unmentionable feminine products. "I think I'm well within my rights to tell you I owe you my life," she concluded, and Padma gave a small laugh.

"Well, I'll keep that in mind. Daphne, hi," Padma offered pleasantly, and then, slightly less pleasantly, "Pansy, hello."

"Mm," said Pansy, as Hermione fought not to roll her eyes at her in public.

"And… oh I'm sorry, I'm not sure we've met? I'm Padma Patil," said Padma to Astoria, who smiled thinly. Not out of any particular mood, Hermione observed, but out of what seemed to be general exhaustion.

"We haven't met, no. I'm Astoria Poliakoff," she said. "Daphne's sister."

"Oh, wonderful," said Padma, as Hermione recovered what little social graces she possessed to attempt fluid conversation.

"What are you doing here?" she asked Padma. "I don't think I saw your name on the Transfiguration Project donors—"

"Oh no, I wouldn't be on that list. I'm not nearly wealthy enough for that," said Padma with a laugh, as Hermione felt the renewed (and slightly uncomfortable) reminder that she could no longer conspire with what used to be a highly relatable statement. "Terence is, though, and he asked me to come along."

"Oh yes, you're dating, aren't you?" asked Daphne, who had always been the most well-liked of any of them and therefore the only one informed of anything by their former schoolmates.

"Not anymore, no. But we're on amicable terms," Padma assured them quickly, "and since I've not been very happy at my current job, he thought I might enjoy a little swim in the philanthropic world."

"Are you in business, then?" asked Astoria.

"Well, yes and no. The business of education, I suppose. I got my MBA from Oxford not long ago and began working at the school," Padma explained, "but it's not particularly interesting work. I'd hoped to have a bit more interaction with other charitable causes."

"What sort of thing are you looking for?" asked Daphne. "Something in the not-for-profit world?"

"I'm not entirely certain," Padma admitted. "I had some excellent work developing the women's leadership program, but it's so well-established by now that there's really nothing more for me to do. I enjoyed running the operations immensely, but there's so many intersectional parts of feminism that go beyond the Oxford program. There's mental health advocacy, and of course childcare and early education, plus providing advantages to women and girls in STEM fields… the list goes on, really."

"I used to do quite a lot of work in those areas," said Hermione, nearly losing her train of thought as Daphne began motioning wildly at something she presumed to be behind her. "I could introduce you to some of the women I used to work with, if you'd like to give me your contact informati- ouch, Daphne," she said, brushing away Daphne's elbow. "Anyway, do you have a card?"

"Oh, yes of course. Here," said Padma, handing it to Hermione. "I would so appreciate it, Hermione, thank you."

"Not at all, Padm- Daphne," Hermione hissed at her, "is there a problem?"

Before Daphne could answer, however, Pansy interrupted. "Have you ever considered working in one of the royal households?" she asked Padma, as Daphne threw her hands up in exasperated confirmation. "Say, for example," Pansy mused with a pointed glance at Hermione, "the offices of a woman who champions all of the above causes despite not grasping basic social cues?"

"I… presume you mean you?" Padma asked Hermione, who finally understood what Daphne had been bothering her about.

"Oh, I—well, yes," Hermione confirmed, clearing her throat. "I am looking for a chief of staff, though I assume you're looking for something, um… Well, something that's a bit more—"

"I'll admit, I hadn't considered it before," Padma said with a frown, saving Hermione from having to confess she had no idea what a royal chief of staff even did. "I always assumed courtiers were titled."

"Oh, well. Some of them." Hermione felt her cheeks heat. "But I was hoping for more qualifications than a title. Ideally someone who could help me make the connection between programs and organizations I care about and, well… how to care for them in an effective manner," she concluded, unsure whether that was an adequate sell.

"Oh." Padma blinked. "Well, that I'd be happy to do."

"Really?" Hermione asked, mortifyingly eager, and Pansy flashed her a look of disapproval. "Well, um. I'll have our office's communications secretary schedule an interview, then," she said, attempting to regain her composure. "If you don't mind, that is," she added hastily.

"Not at all, I look forward to hearing from them. It was nice seeing you all," Padma said, directing the comment to the group in general. "And nice meeting you," she added to Astoria, who nodded.

"Well, there you go, then," said Pansy, motioning after the departure of the woman Hermione fervently hoped would agree to work for her within the next forty-eight hours. "Granted, I still think Lady Susan would be far and away more suitable—"

"My god, Pansy, are you joking?" asked Daphne, aghast. "We _hate_ her!"

"—but if you _insist_ on choosing someone less appropriate, Padma Patil isn't bad," Pansy concluded. "She's solidly upper middle class and vastly more educated than she let on. Double firsts in History and Economics from Hogwarts, I believe."

"Why do you know that?" asked Hermione, half-amused.

"Hermione, please. I know everything," said Pansy, replacing her hand on her stomach. "Now if you'll excuse me, someone is making demands," she announced, stoically chasing down a passing tray of canapés.

"I thought you said she was in a sentimental phase?" murmured Astoria in Pansy's absence.

"She is," Hermione confirmed. "See? She's gotten weepy."

"Is she crying about a cucumber sandwich?" Astoria asked, bewildered.

"We've all done it," said Daphne, shrugging just before Theo caught her arm to drag her back for another philanthropic introduction.

* * *

Padma, to Hermione's great relief, was a natural fit. Even Percy had to agree she was more than suitable for the job, and while Hermione wished she could have saddled Padma with a learning curve slightly less steep than an immediate diplomatic trip to Wales, she was grateful the transition was easy. Hermione's first extensive length of time in her mother-in-law's presence was surely going to be… less so.

"Why in god's name is Snape here?" asked Narcissa once they were seated together on the lawn of Caernarfon Castle. She had whispered it, sort of, but given the fact that Draco was currently being invested into his new role by Abraxas in almost abject silence, it wasn't as quiet as one might have hoped.

"I detest the man," Narcissa added in explanation, and though Hermione wasn't entirely sure now was the time to get into it, she figured her curiosity had built up to a certain necessity for release.

"What's wrong with him?" Hermione asked, leaning closer. She tried to simultaneously conjure a look of penitent joy at the sight of Draco, who was giving some sort of oath to serve the country while kneeling before his grandfather.

(For the record, it was wonderful to be able to travel alongside him instead of waving him goodbye while staying behind, and to do most of their work as joint appearances was a definite bonus. However, the 'work' itself was at times crushingly dull.)

"You mean besides his face and generally unpleasant demeanor? Nothing," said Narcissa unhelpfully, before adding, "Sirius always hated Snape. James, too."

"James…" Hermione blinked. "As in Harry's father James?"

Narcissa nodded. "They were all together at Eton." She slid another tart glance in Snape's direction before adding, "Bellatrix always liked him more than I did, so I suspect he was partial orchestrator of Lucius' little salacities. Bygones, of course," she added flippantly, casting a sweetened glance at her husband before returning her attention to her son. "But still, just because one forgives doesn't mean one should ever be foolish enough to forget," she advised in an undertone.

"Speaking of Bellatrix, has she contacted you at all? She's been alarmingly quiet," Hermione murmured, and Narcissa expertly stifled a laugh.

"You're right to be suspicious. She's been _extremely_ quiet, which means she'll likely murder one or both of us soon. Or write another book, since the first one did so well," Narcissa posed alternatively, raising her program to block any cameras from observing the motions of her mouth. "Or presumably fuck our husbands. Not yours, of course," she added reassuringly to Hermione. "Though perhaps she'll set her sights on Abraxas?" Narcissa mused, sounding intrigued by the prospect.

"I hope not," Hermione said, moderately repulsed. "Though, can you imagine if she ever decided to go for Theo's father?"

"My dear, that is revolting," said Narcissa fondly. "You're really beginning to develop something of a sense of humor, aren't you?"

"That or debilitating indigestion," said Hermione. She slid a glance at her mother-in-law, who had worn a dress that had recently been seen in public. It was a pastel yellow that was exceedingly unremarkable—a favor to Hermione, she supposed, who was receiving a small smattering of tentative praise for her own ability to put clothes on that day.

The same could not be said for other recent engagements, unfortunately. A navy dress Hermione had worn for their arrival in Wales was, quote, "a worse version of Hermione Granger's odd tendency towards outmoded designs" that expressed "a certain difficulty dressing for her age" and was, sartorially speaking, "a shaky landing from the tour de force that was the Royal Wedding."

_It looked good when I tried it on_, Hermione wanted to argue, though there was no arguing that photography had offered some unfortunate angles neither she nor Daphne had thought to check before she left.

"So is that why Harry doesn't like Snape?" Hermione asked, returning her attention to the conversation. "Because his father didn't?"

"Oh, who knows why Harry does anything," scoffed Narcissa. "He was raised by my cousin, who hasn't a lick of sense, only handsomeness and panache. Though," she added as an afterthought, "I suppose it might have been worse."

"Worse than being orphaned?" Hermione asked doubtfully.

"Oh, Harry has much closer biological family than Sirius. He has a maternal aunt and uncle," Narcissa explained matter-of-factly. "Dreadful people from somewhere intolerable. Surrey, I expect, which is where Harry would be now, titles and all, if not for Sirius intervening."

"What?" Hermione had to forcefully readjust her expression, caught entirely off guard by Narcissa's delivery of some bizarre parallel universe where Prince Harry wasn't Prince Harry at all. "Who are they?"

"His mother's family, I expect. Lily was frightfully common," Narcissa added with obvious delight. "If I'd known how things would turn out for me I'd have adored her much more vengefully, at least for the five minutes she was around. She'd have had none of this, I promise you," Narcissa added with a tiny flutter of her fingers. "Had she lived any longer I'm sure she'd have stolen James away and absconded to the woods. Nobody would have blamed her, either."

"But what does that have to do with Snape?" asked Hermione, frowning. "And who is Harry's aunt?"

"Oh, who can remember. Parsnip? Or Persimmon. Something like that." Narcissa shrugged. "And Snape was Lily's fiancé, I believe, or at very least his informally intended until James swept in and married her. Lucius nearly had an aneurysm over it—it was all so messy in _precisely_ the way Abraxas detests—but one minute Lily was some sort of fussy academic betrothed to her childhood friend, the next she was a socialite bearing the heir to the Potter fortune. Nobody knew what to make of her."

Pansy had always made it clear that Harry's mother wasn't a member of the aristocracy, but even she hadn't put it in quite those terms—out of love for Harry, most likely, whom they all knew mythologized his parents to the point of sainthood. No doubt if any of them had ever known any of this, they would have all sheltered Harry from reality since he was a child.

"And… Aunt Persimmon?" asked Hermione tentatively.

"Christ, forget her," Narcissa snorted with quiet derision, "everyone else certainly has. She was so unremarkable she all but vanished from the room at the funeral. No, it was the husband who was unmissable, the doddering idiot. Frankly I'm surprised he's been quiet for so long." Narcissa paused for a moment, considering it. "I wonder what happened with him—possibly nothing, though it's equally possible I was sedated and forgot. He was furious they didn't see a hint of James's money," she explained to Hermione. "Fought Sirius tooth and nail tying up parts of the estate until he died, though I'm not sure Harry's aware. You know they have a son Harry's age?" she asked, suddenly remembering. "Supposedly it was for his sake they were trying to wrangle a bit of James' fortune out from under Harry."

"You're joking," Hermione said, fully aghast and fidgeting to conceal it. "That's… my god, that's terrible. And Draco knows?"

Narcissa's lips pursed in a way that suggested otherwise.

"But—"

"_Snape_ knows." Narcissa slid Hermione an arched look of total distaste, communicating with a glance the heat of her aversion. "Don't you ever doubt that. If ever something foul's going on," she added with hardly any motion of her mouth, "I promise you, Snape's got wind of it."

Hermione would have liked to ask more questions, but it seemed Narcissa's attention was now genuinely focused on Draco—and with good reason. He was receiving the honors of his station, and for a moment, even Hermione managed to temporarily forget anything other than the fact that the man she loved was preparing to one day take the throne as king. Standing there before his grandfather was an iconic glimpse of past and future: Abraxas, Britain's nearly eternal monarch, and the glow of his legacy knelt before him, his golden heir.

As it came time for Draco to complete his vows and be bestowed with whatever funny hat he was supposed to wear that day, Lucius reached over for Narcissa's hand. She gave it to him, absent any hesitation whatsoever, but the moment the ceremony came to a close, she leaned close to Hermione once again.

"Do me a favor, since you've got all my lovely meaningless jewels," Narcissa murmured, watching her son as he accepted all the insignia of his new reign. "Make sure Draco is advised well."

"By whom?" Hermione asked. The glint from the crown on Draco's head was so bright she nearly had to shade her eyes from it, blinking like sunspots of portent.

"You," said Narcissa flatly, slipping her hand from Lucius' to join the rest of the crowd in applauding their newly invested Prince of Wales. "You, Hermione, and you alone."

* * *

"Ominous," remarked Blaise without looking up. "Luckily you had all that sheep-shearing to recover from your shock."

"Are y- _Blaise_," Hermione groaned, "are you looking at the Daily Prophet's slideshow from our Wales trip? Stop it," she warned, attempting to swat the phone out of his hand. "You know I'm disastrous at archery—"

"I _do_ know that," Blaise agreed, "and now what do you have to say for yourself? 'Archaic skill' my foot," he sniffed.

"Don't I get points for trying?" Hermione attempted, covering her eyes with dismay when he held up the picture in question.

"Trying points? Please. What's next, participation trophies?"

"Those get a bad rap," she assured him, shoving his phone away once again.

"Fine, then twenty points for most improved," Blaise conceded, tucking his phone into his pocket. "But bear in mind those points may direct themselves elsewhere if your weapons skills remain stagnant by this time next year."

"I'm not going to practice archery in my non-existent spare time just to continue winning an imaginary contest," scoffed Hermione, who most certainly was going to do just that.

"Well, you can lead a horse to water," said Blaise sagely, "but what he does in the bath is none of your business."

"Noted," Hermione replied, just as Padma's face appeared in the doorway.

"Hermione, I just got off the phone with Lady Augusta Longbottom," she said. "She and Minerva McGonagall at the Transfiguration Project are hosting a luncheon for women in business that I thought you might have interest in attending."

"Oh, excellent, thank you Padma," Hermione said, glancing at Blaise to see if he might show any form of reaction to hearing Neville's grandmother's name. (He did not.) "Well, I certainly can't say no to Minerva. How many attendees?"

"It's expected to be high volume. I'll contact Snape regarding necessary security details and get Percy looped in on press, and then we can circle back during our drive to the school later this afternoon?"

"That would be fantastic," Hermione replied, and Padma responded with a nod, tapping her bluetooth headset and dialing someone—presumably Snape—at precisely that moment.

"So," said Blaise, glancing over his shoulder to gesture in Padma's wake, "what was Rita Skeeter's take on your new chieftess?"

"Not great, Blaise, not great," Hermione replied with a false heap of cheer, "but that's unsurprising. I've never known Rita to take the high road."

"What's the issue?"

"Oh, just some nonsense. Padma's lack of social standing was part of it," Hermione admitted with a sigh, "but primarily she's focused on a rumor that I refused to hire Gemma Farley because she dated Draco once while he was prepubescent."

"Oh he did, didn't he?" mused Blaise. "A voracious time, the springtime of our youths."

"Were you discovering your sexual urges as well, then?" Hermione asked with a roll of her eyes. "Quite a summer you all must have had, from the sounds of it."

"Me? No, I was a terribly late bloomer," said Blaise. "Nott, on the other hand—"

"Oi," said Theo at precisely that moment, manifesting in the door frame as if he'd been charmed to appear. "Slandering me again, Zabini?"

"Only a little… ah, and what's this? Wales himself," crowed Blaise, noting Draco's appearance behind Theo. "Is it a full gathering of the Lads, then?"

"Only the good ones," said Hermione fondly.

"Oh, is it? Then I'll wait outside," said an unexpected fourth voice, revealing that Harry had joined them as well. "Did I miss a memo?" he asked, filing in after the other two. "I didn't realize there was going to be a full summit."

"Truthfully I'd no idea Blaise was here," Draco admitted, clapping a hand on Blaise's shoulder as he fell into the seat beside him. "A delightful turn of fate if ever there was one." Theo, always languorous, perched on the corner of Hermione's desk while Harry situated himself between Draco and Blaise, leaning a heel of a hand on each chair. "Harry and I were working, but of course Theo can't be controlled," Draco offered in explanation to Blaise. "And I take it you're here to chat up my wife?"

"I was summoned, yes," confirmed Blaise. "We've been discussing breton stripes for summer."

From Harry: "Okay, even I know that's absurd. You'd never do something so on-the-nose."

From Draco: "Yes, and Helen's assured me a number of times that it's all very _Red_-era, whatever that means, which is somehow different from _1989_ Americana—"

Hermione, amused: "Why have a stylist when I can have four such able contributors?"

From Theo, lamentingly: "Much as I hate to admit it, one cannot help but learn these things by osmosis. Already my mind is filling with summer palettes and the ghosts of Greengrasses past, all of which are telling me I'll be hanged for an untimely pastel."

From Blaise: "A normal person would, yes. You'll be tried for something far worse, I imagine."

Harry: "Oh almost certainly. When was the last time you decried the Crown? Surely no later than this morning, if I had to guess."

Theo, feigning scandal: "_Decry_, publicly? Nonsense. One may _flirt_ with treason in the privacy of one's own home, Henry, but it's hardly official. Merely whets the appetite."

Blaise: "Out of curiosity, how do we measure 'just the tip' in the case of statecraft?"

Harry, thoughtfully: "So long as nobody's satisfied I imagine it counts."

Theo: "So… Scrimgeour somehow trying to both facilitate and reverse Brexit?"

Blaise: "Scrimgeour in general. And yes."

Draco, with a sigh: "Am I supposed to pretend I'm not hearing this?"

Blaise: "For a certain number of points, yes."

Draco, nodding: "Ah, then carry on."

Hermione, to Harry and Draco: "So what were the two of you working on?"

Harry: "Oh, a little sporting this, a little military that. Something-something sustainability council, so on and so forth."

Hermione, slowly: "So… then the two of you… are… ?"

Blaise: "A-sail on a sea of camaraderie?"

Theo, scoffing: "Certainly not. Everyone knows Draco's an indoor cat."

Blaise: "Ah yes, five points for the timely reminder—"

Hermione, impatiently: "So you're both _fine_, then?"

Harry, with a glance at Draco: "We've reached an impasse, I suspect."

Draco, nodding: "Suspicions confirmed."

Hermione, still uncertain: "Meaning…?"

Draco: "Meaning Harry's a reasonable adult man who knows I'm not going to sack a member of my household over something that happened nearly thirty years ago."

Harry: "Okay, firstly, that's not what I suggested—"

Draco: "True, but I did rule out the possibility of assassination quite quickly."

Harry, shaking his head: "Loathe it when you do that."

Hermione, suspiciously, to Theo: "Translation…?"

Theo, with a nod: "They're fine."

Hermione, relieved: "Well, Harry, just so we're clear, I'd be more than happy to oblige you on this particular issue, only I'm told we all face disaster if we let Snape go."

Harry, shrugging: "On that I suppose I have no choice but to agree."

Blaise, in a theatrical whisper: "Careful, Princess New Tracey. Snape's probably listening as we speak."

Draco, exasperated: "He's in our front offices, Blaise, and I highly doubt he has any interest in anything the lot of you have to discuss with me."

Theo, musingly: "Does the man even technically _have_ interests? He's like my father, only neutral to the point of actual psychological disturbance. We could tell him we're off to commit murder and he'd simply hand us the gun."

Draco: "I think it probable he'd commit it for us, actually—not that I want any of us to get mired in the details any further. As long as we're having a laugh I'm not especially concerned."

Harry: "I'm not exactly laughing, but so long as he and I never interact, I've been assured I'll get the next round."

Draco, firmly: "Which you will. And honestly, I can't think of any reason you and Snape would ever have to speak."

Harry: "So long as it stays that way, all is well."

A bemused Hermione to Draco: "But if Harry's not mad, then what did you do to make Pansy so upset?"

She hadn't expected it to be a controversial topic, but the reactions to her right suggested otherwise. The moment she said it, Blaise and Theo both tensed as if they knew something that Harry and Draco (and Hermione) clearly didn't.

"You know how she is," Theo cut in quickly, while Blaise offered a languid shrug. (Not that Hermione was ever displeased to see Draco, but now she wished she'd been able to finish her conversation before he showed up—Blaise might have told her eventually, if not for the interruption.) "In any case, Cali, I'm glad I caught you," Theo continued tangentially, "as Greengrass asked me to pass along a message. She'll have to push your appointment this evening by about an hour."

"Oh," said Hermione, making a mental note to have Padma add it to her schedule before remembering that the non-public details of her diary were a job for yet another person: an assistant, not a chief of staff. Someone to schedule final fittings for her, too, so that she would escape the dour commentary on how poorly sized the bodice on her latest day dress had been—not that she wanted to think about any of that right now. "Am I still heading to her atelier after my event today, then?"

"You're welcome to just come to ours, if you'd like," Theo said. "I'm sure she'd prefer that, anyway, and I'll be home from my board meeting an hour or so after she is."

"Well, that's certainly not a problem." Hermione glanced down at her watch. "At the moment, though, I think I have to—"

"Car's ready for us, Hermione," Padma confirmed, appearing in the doorway, and Hermione rose to her feet, kissing Draco goodbye (and pointedly dodging kisses from the other three) before making her exit for that day's appearance.

By the time she made it to the Notts' townhouse that evening, she was nearly forty-five minutes behind schedule. To her surprise, though, Daphne was still not home, and Hermione was received by the Nott household staff before being led into the already occupied living room.

"Oh," Hermione said, spotting Astoria, who appeared to have been there a while. "Sorry, have you been waiting long?"

Astoria looked up to arch a brow. "Why are _you_ apologizing?"

"Oh, I… I'm not sure," Hermione admitted, suffering a little reminder of Pansy's usual scolding not to apologize so often. _Highly female_, Pansy's voice chided her sympathetically, _but also enormously impractical. _"Well, um."

She sank into the sofa, unsure what to do in Daphne's house while she and Theo were both absent. "Will she be home soon, do you think?"

"I imagine so, though your guess is as good as mine." Astoria set down her copy of Vogue, obviously intending to entertain Hermione's conversation out of politeness. Whenever she and Astoria were left alone together—which was infrequent—it always felt a bit as if they were both patients in the same waiting room.

"Were you meeting her in an official capacity," Astoria asked, "or…?"

"Well—" Hermione stopped. "I suppose the two blend together more often than not. Friendship and… everything else she does for me." She suffered another pang of Pansy-related chagrin and sighed, "Though I think perhaps I do need to find someone else for the rest."

"Daphne is quite busy," Astoria tactfully agreed, before amending with a glance at her magazine, "Though it's more than _busy_, isn't it? She'll never admit it, obviously, but she's… really made something of herself."

"Oh, of course," said Hermione, not entirely sure what Astoria was referring to, which must have been obvious. After a brief moment of hesitation, Astoria rose to her feet and settled uncomfortably beside Hermione, handing her the copy of Vogue.

"I take it you don't read this?" Astoria asked.

"Er, no," Hermione admitted, accepting the magazine from Astoria and glancing down at an open editorial spread of herself—which was not about her at all, but rather, effusive praise of Daphne's line. _The artistic vision behind the up-and-coming fashion house of Daphne Nott is the rare combination of exceptional imagination and faultless instinct. Nott pays sacred homage to the natural beauty of each woman she dresses_, said the quoted passage, which featured a name Hermione had never heard but was followed by the words _Artistic Director, Dior._

Hermione swallowed, her chest growing unexpectedly tight.

She'd known Daphne was doing well. But she hadn't known she was doing _this_ well.

"I have to let her go, don't I?" Hermione realized at a murmur, a month's worth of stress suddenly boiling over into a tiny, selfish pop of painful acceptance.

It clearly wasn't in Astoria's nature to offer anything Hermione might have wanted at the moment, like a hug, but she hazarded a nod. "She will thank you for it," Astoria said. "And I imagine someday you'll be glad you did."

"Yeah, I'm sure you're right." It was what Pansy had said as well. Hermione cleared her throat of melancholic nostalgia and nodded, her phone coincidentally buzzing from her purse.

_So sorry, couldn't get away to send a message—I'll be home no later than thirty minutes, I promise! Have someone fetch you something bubbly, I'll be right there! _

"She's on her way," said Hermione, typing a variety of hearts in reply. Astoria, meanwhile, seemed to have reached her quota of sympathy, adjusting her skirt and rising to her feet.

"Well," she said. "I imagine you and my sister have a great deal to discuss whenever she arrives, so I'll leave you to it."

Hermione nodded, hitting send on her message, and then blinked, remembering she still had Astoria's magazine in her lap. "Oh, here, sorry, this is yours—"

"Oh, keep it," Astoria said with a shrug. "You'll need something to entertain you until she arrives, anyway."

She turned to the door, pausing just before walking through it.

"You know, you've been a very good friend to my sister," Astoria murmured, half to herself. "Given the circumstances I don't think I've ever thanked you properly for that, but I hope you know how much you mean to her. She—"

She stopped.

"Daphne is a person easily taken advantage of," Astoria amended carefully. "By many of her former school friends. By our parents. By me." She turned to face Hermione. "Because of you she learned to fight for herself, and I should think that those of us who love her owe you a debt of gratitude for that."

In Hermione's mind, that was far too much credit for something Daphne had done almost entirely on her own. "Astoria, I really don't think—"

"No," Astoria said with a shake of her head. "Just accept it, Hermione. Just accept my thanks, please. Daphne is lucky to have had a friend like you."

It occurred to Hermione that that must not have been easy for Astoria to say, though before she could attempt a reply, Theo had already bounded into the room from somewhere else in the house.

"Oh balls, is Greengrass not home? Drat," he said. "I was hoping to surprise her by coming home early. Alas, the trials of timing," he lamented, before hunting around for a phone charger.

"Well, we're both out of luck, then," Hermione grumbled, assuming Astoria had gone ahead and left the room rather than say hello. She slumped down on the sofa, announcing with a juvenile whine, "Theo, tell me who to hire."

He was obviously distracted. "For what?"

"I need a _stylist_," Hermione groaned. "More like an assistant, which is forking _tragic_. I basically need someone to dress me and make sure I'm not an embarrassment to this country. Help me, I have the fashion sensibilities of a hapless child," she moaned, quoting either Pansy or Blaise—or possibly both.

"Mm, Greengrass did mention she was struggling to maintain her hold on that particular task," Theo said, still searching around through the drawers of some priceless antique desk. "She's been fretting over it for months now, truth be told, though I wasn't supposed to mention anyth-"

"I'll do it."

Hermione, who had been sure Astoria had left, nearly jumped a foot off the sofa while Theo smacked his head into an upper shelf, both equally taken aback.

"Christ's _teeth_ Astoria, when'd you come in—"

"I can do it," Astoria said to Hermione, ignoring Theo entirely. "If anyone's going to take over from my sister, I see no reason it shouldn't be me."

"I… but—" Hermione frowned. "It's… not a very glamorous job, I'm afraid—"

"I have glamor enough on my own," Astoria said dismissively. "As for my qualifications, I'm titled. I'm a Greengrass. My sister is your preferred designer and I've listened, I've watched her work. I'm frequently featured in the best dressed society pages. I can dress you, and everything beyond that I can learn."

Hermione didn't doubt her qualifications for styling; Astoria's fashion sense was considerably less eccentric than Daphne's, but given the volume of Hermione's public appearances, that was probably what she needed long-term. "But… you'd want to work for me, though?" Hermione asked tentatively. "Because it would be a job."

Astoria appeared to recognize this was the tricky bit.

"I wouldn't normally accept a position of this nature," she admitted. "But I suppose if I'm being candid, I am a bit… restless at the moment."

Theo and Hermione exchanged a look that suggested he, too, had noticed the difference in Astoria's demeanor since her wedding.

"I don't think Alex will mind," Astoria said with a shrug. "And my parents won't like it, but they didn't like Daphne's choice of career or husband either. So I've got it half right, at least."

"None taken," said Theo cheerily.

"Of course, you'll have some press to deal with," Astoria cautioned Hermione. "The moment my appointment to your household is announced they'll dig up my background and publish everything. Your alleged aversion to me, my previous relationship with Draco. It'll be precisely what happened with Snape," she added offhandedly, which a glance at Theo told Hermione must have had something to do with whatever the others weren't mentioning in her office earlier that day.

"Well, I certainly don't care what Rita Skeeter has to say—"

"It's nothing that wouldn't have happened with Gemma," Theo pointed out. "So really, what's another knife at a tournament of knife fights?"

"True," Hermione acknowledged, "that's… I mean, I _think_ that makes sense—"

"The point is I'll do it, if you need me," Astoria said again, with finality this time. "If you want my help," she clarified, suddenly looking much younger than her twenty-six years, "I'll do it."

It was an odd choice. An unlikely offering. Hermione acknowledged that much to herself and then nudged the observations aside, focusing on the point.

It wasn't really about having to choose someone who wasn't Daphne, because nobody was Daphne; Hermione knew that. It also wasn't the time to worry about her press strategy moving forward, and it certainly wasn't the time to ask about Snape. This, for better or worse, was an opportunity to offer another woman a way out from whatever it was that was currently weighing on her, and even though Hermione wasn't entirely sure what life would be like seeing Astoria on a daily basis—and even though Hermione had never really considered Astoria a friend—she knew there wasn't even a distant chance she'd refuse.

"Please, please help me," Hermione said, confessing her desperation to its most palpable degree, and for the smallest moment, Astoria looked like she might have smiled under other circumstances.

"Thank you," she said, and because Hermione had already been advised to accept gratitude when it was given, she nodded, warily investing in whatever would come next.

* * *

Draco asked me the other day how the journaling was coming and I told him the truth: that while it was a relief in some way to record each of these life-altering events, I wasn't entirely sure it was working. After all, who am I writing to? Myself? Is reliving every choice I make actually helpful to the world in some real way, or am I just the pandering anthropologist of my own clumsy experience?

He kissed me and laughed and yes, I love him beyond anything on earth, but it wasn't particularly helpful, because unfortunately I might have genuine concerns. After all, is anything I'm doing going to help me help Harry? Is it going to help me understand where I fit, not only among the people in my own life, but into the world at large? Will the fact that I've recorded the details of my private struggle do anything to redeem the choices I've made; will it undo the damage of breaking bread with a man more dangerous than I could have ever known?

Even at my best I know there are no answers. Princess or not, like every other person alive, I'll simply have to wait and find out.

* * *

_**a/n: **__Someone asked me to post my tumblr drabble from years ago about Fred and George finding the Marauder's Map, so that's now up on AO3. Thanks for reading! _


	3. Be Witty If You Must

**Chapter 3: Be Witty If You Must**

_** Big_D_**__  
Replying to __** Pierssss **__and __** VernonDursley1**_

_its about takin back control innit? ppl say its racist but whats racist is good hardworking people losing their jobs bc everyone else is too afraid to speak up about whats rly goin on. its not right_

_1:41 AM - 1 Sep 2018  
__**54**_ _Retweets __**231 **__Likes_

Okay, it's not like I spend much time scouring the weird little corners of the internet. People always say not to read the comments and boy, is that true. Whenever I end up poking around out of curiosity I'm met with an instant yearning to lie down and sleep for a hundred years. I usually set a timer for my aimless scrolling (no more than fifteen minutes) but even then, I don't know how people can live their whole lives on this thing. It's like the world saps me of energy and I have to stop, but knowing I'm privileged enough to be able to hit pause on how bad things are for the majority of people never fails to come up and hit me with a second wind.

The thing is, it's pretty insular being in the royal family. That probably seems obvious—I mean, I've _seen_ Disney movies—but I'd never thought much before about how having educated parents and going to private school made me assume that most people agreed with what I'd been taught about the world. It's still really hard to conceive that some people think the moon landing was a hoax or that people alive today seem nostalgic about fascism—or that Taylor Swift's muse is _Joe Alwyn_, for ship's sake—but as impossible as it all seems to me, reality won't respect the constraints of my personal perception.

There's no limit to what people can believe, and not understanding that might get me into trouble if I don't wise up soon.

* * *

_July 27, 2018  
Cheshire, England_

Hermione's first solo appearance with Abraxas was a result of Draco being away on his and Harry's joint venture into charitable football, or something else Commonwealth-y that both men had been chattering about for months. As Nott Senior had informed her, this would have been the sort of event reserved for Draco when he was still the underling royal to his father—but now that Hermione had replaced him as the lowest rung on the family ladder, the task of propping up Abraxas' appearances fell to her.

"Well, that's… flattering," Hermione had drily remarked, to which Nott had given her his usual unpleasant look of wishing she'd simply disappear into thin air.

"You might recall that you are only Princess of Wales by marriage, not birth," he informed her, as if in the three months since she'd gotten married she might have forgotten. "In case it has not been made clear to you by now, the 'Princess Narcissa' misnomer was and has always been an error committed by the press. Her title was akin to _Mrs_ Prince of Wales," he said snippily, "just as yours is now."

"You know, we did talk about the possibility of Draco taking my last name," Hermione mused, assuming Nott would recognize it for the joke that it was, but of course he hadn't. He'd given her a withering glare before offering what appeared to be a literal stiff upper lip.

"There will be no need for you to speak," he said.

"There never is," she cheerfully replied, but it turned out that Abraxas was hardly the unpleasant travel companion that having Nott Sr for a friend suggested.

Having spent very little time alone with him before, Hermione's impression of the British monarch had always been limited to glimpses. She'd known only that he was tall, imposing, and generally of the opinion that she should not be the woman to marry his grandson, but now she could see glimpses of why Draco was so fond of his grandfather. Not that any direct comparisons could be made, but in private Abraxas resembled a hybrid of other people Draco and Hermione both loved; he had Harry's sense of humor, Daphne's inherent likability, and Theo's talent for offbeat observations. He was very like Theo in general, which led Hermione to wonder for the thousandth time how Theo was possibly even related to his own father.

"Oh, Nott's harmless," said Abraxas with a laugh. Even his posture was different in private, one leg swinging blithely over the other as he leaned his head against the back of his seat. "Unfortunately I think he prides himself on his natural repellence."

"In his defense, it is a very remarkable ability," Hermione said, and Abraxas let out another laugh, nearly startling her with the sound of it.

"The man was determined to spend his life in solitude until Ava," he said. "I suspect he would have succeeded, too, had she not accidentally uncovered his better nature."

Hermione, who had never heard Theo's mother's name mentioned casually in conversation before, couldn't resist another dig. "How on earth did she find it?"

Another laugh. "Not at all willingly. According to Ade it was all but disaster until Theodore came down with some sort of illness. A few sniffles had him revealing all sorts of gratuitous humanity to her—mortifying for both of them, I imagine."

"Ade?" Hermione echoed before she could stop herself, and Abraxas' smile wavered slightly.

"My late wife," he said. "Adelaide. You'd have liked her," he added, revealing a bit of nostalgia as his gaze went foggy-eyed. "Draco is very like her. She, too, had a habit of collecting admirers."

Hermione understood immediately what he meant. "I always assumed Draco got that talent for social diplomacy from you."

"Me? No, no. I'm afraid none of this comes very naturally to me." His smile broadened kindly. "You know, my own father was king for a much shorter period of time," he said, reminding Hermione that even though the man before her was Britain's longest-reigning monarch, he had still been young and inexperienced once. "He was my example, but as time went on, I came to understand that my reign would be vastly different from his. His leadership was marked by necessity; war, poverty. Rising from the ashes." He leaned his hand on his chin, glancing briefly at the countryside that passed outside his window. "But now war is no longer fought in trenches. There are no evil overlords against which we must issue a collective call to arms. In some senses, those villains were easier than ours today; now our enemies are difficult to see, frequently changing. In addition to those who stand against us, we must reconcile our past mistakes, the ethics of our existence. Reparations for the wrongs that we, and all those before us, have committed in ignorance or in error."

He turned his attention back to her.

"But," he said crisply, "our role has never changed. The crown itself has not changed, even if the world around it turns faster than it once seemed to."

"I suspect we all feel that tension to some degree," Hermione remarked hesitantly, thinking again of the backlash against her that seemed to wax and wane with time. True, no news imprint would ever speak about their king the way they did about her, but she supposed Abraxas must have struggled with public outcry. He'd been through nearly ninety years of political crises and family scandals all while weathering the loss of his wife and an estranging tension from his only child.

"Deciding what's right is something we're having to do through a lens that isn't purely our own," Hermione commented. The quickest lesson since she'd started working for the royal family had been that it wasn't just about doing the right thing, but making sure the right thing translated even to those who might speculate wildly from afar.

Abraxas gave her a deferential nod, acknowledging the point. "I suppose you and Draco may have discussed this at length recently, given the nature of coming events."

They hadn't discussed Bagman in at least a week, mostly because Hermione had been distracted settling Padma and Astoria into their new roles. She assumed the decision had been finalized beyond the point of argument.

"Not since we released it in our public engagements, no. Has he discussed it with you further?" she asked, figuring the answer was no.

"Oh, incessantly." Abraxas fixed her with a pointed glance. "If you have changed my grandson in any single substantial way, it is the degree to which he challenges me. I will thank you for it one day," he added with a murmur of humor, "though I'm afraid it will not be for some weeks yet."

Hermione blinked with surprise. "What has he said?"

"Well, I'm sure it will not come as news to you that he has been pushing me to refuse to meet with Bagman." That, Hermione thought in silence, was actually _headline_ news, though she said nothing, waiting to see what Abraxas would say next. "In Draco's eyes the monarchy looks weaker for entertaining a foreign leader whose policies he considers dangerous."

"I take it you don't agree?" Hermione prompted warily. She knew Draco sympathized with her opinion on the matter, but she assumed it had been to a lesser extent, considering he'd taken the opposite stance during their little debates with Harry. Her understanding was that while he agreed with her in theory, he didn't actually intend to take a stand.

She was already well-versed in the way Draco always sided with his grandfather; he'd been doing it for the entire time she'd known him, so naturally she'd prepared herself for the possibility she'd resent it at times in the future. Still, it had never occurred to her that he wouldn't even speak against his grandfather in _private_.

She touched the gold snake ring on her finger and wondered, for the first time, just how much of Draco's conscience he had sacrificed over time in the interest of preserving The Firm.

"It is not our place to politicize unnecessarily," Abraxas said. "We are diplomats and representatives, not politicians. I am the sovereign, as Draco will one day be, and our form of statecraft is to act according to precedent and convention; to accept the rulings of Parliament while also preserving the interest of our people."

"But who exactly are we representing if we appear to support policies that alienate the most vulnerable members of society?" Hermione couldn't stop herself from saying, though she caught the undertone of argument in her voice and prevented herself from saying more. She doubted Draco would appreciate hearing she'd fought with his grandfather before they even arrived at her very first engagement by his side.

In answer, Abraxas gave her a swift, judicious glance. "You say we," he commented, "but in fact, my dear, I am England. Political tides change," he reminded her, in a tone of finality that suggested the conversation was over. "We mustn't."

She wanted to restrain herself. Really, she tried, but despite Nott Sr's insistence to the contrary—despite Bellatrix Lestrange's insistence that Hermione had so readily submitted to 'the way things were done'—she was the same Hermione Granger she had been before Draco had put the crown on her head. If one thing about her existence was for certain, it was that Draco had not married her out of love for her restraint.

"And if that tide threatens to capsize those who are most in need?" she asked Abraxas. "Is it our job to sit in our ivory tower and watch?"

He gave her something of an empty smile that time.

"I suppose you must get tired of hearing this," he said, "but you are indeed very bright. Perhaps the brightest young woman I've ever known, and that is a compliment indeed, considering I've lived a very long life in the company of clever women." He glanced out the window. "Unfortunately it will be all the more difficult for you to reconcile that brilliance with what this role will ask of you." He seemed to let out a musing sigh to himself, then murmured, "I imagine there will be little thrill for you in smiling for the cameras today."

"Not true," Hermione assured him quickly. "Public works are important. I'm glad to be here."

"Yes, but what might you have been instead?"

Unsure what he'd meant to imply, Hermione said nothing in response. Eventually Abraxas turned away from the window to face her, shaking his head.

"You and I will have our disagreements," he remarked, returning to their previous argument. "I'm sure that will not surprise you. It will be challenging for you to see my point of view, just as I will struggle to see yours. In the end, though, I have over half a century of sovereignty under my belt and you do not. I have seen the rise and fall of tyranny. I have witnessed true atrocity and seen human decency win. I have been forced to shake hands with monsters and lived to see their decline," he reminded her with a pointed look, "so you'll forgive me if my outlook on the world is not so very dire."

In some ways it was a backhanded insult, which was a Britishism (or certainly a Pansy-ism) that Hermione had gotten accustomed to over the last eight years. He had managed to make his point, which was ultimately that people could be counted on to do the right thing, or at least to self-correct eventually when times were troubled. She hoped, deeply, that he was right, even if her personal view of history suggested he wasn't.

"I've already agreed to the dinner," she reminded him. "At your request, and at Draco's, I'll be there. I will be on my best behavior," she added, and Abraxas nodded. "But I hope you will not always ask me to pretend I can look away from what's going on."

Abraxas shook his head in agreement. "If we were privileged enough to look away, then this job could be done by anyone," he told her. "There is nothing strong in cowering, nor anything dignified in hiding from the truth."

She wanted to tell him there were still braver things than diplomacy, but by then they'd already arrived. The King of England had replaced her grandfather-in-law, and the conversation was at an end.

_Narcissa was a liability_, Nott Sr had hissed at her that morning. _Do not be the same._

So the woman formerly known as Hermione Granger painted on the smile that had been rigorously coached for the last three months as she followed in King Abraxas' wake, stepping towards the crowd.

* * *

"A good amount of teeth," said Percy, nodding approvingly at his screen as they gathered at her weekly staff meeting. Snape, thankfully, was busy finalizing Draco's schedule, which was always a bit more tightly packed than hers. "You're getting better at it," Percy observed, ostensibly congratulating her as he nudged his glasses further up his nose.

"Gee, thanks," sighed Hermione. "Smiling's all very new to me."

"Understood," said Percy, missing the joke. "You'll get there."

"Sorry to pile on, but he's right," Padma agreed, rescuing Hermione from having to explain herself. "You haven't exactly… how shall I put this. Cultivated your royal persona yet?" she posited, glancing at Percy for confirmation, and he nodded. "Your styling is a bit inconsistent—no fault of yours," she added quickly to Astoria, who said nothing. "But people aren't sure what to make of you yet. And your personality remains fairly unestablished."

"Most of what people know about you comes from hearsay," Percy added. "The person you were as Draco's girlfriend, which is—begging your pardon, Ma'am—mostly quite happy to be there."

He pulled up a picture from one of Abraxas' annual galas to show her. Now that he'd mentioned it, Hermione could agree that she _did_ look unreasonably excited in the picture, sort of like a child finally allowed to sit at the adult table.

"In terms of communicating yourself to your audience in a favorable way, the details are crucially important. Superficial though it seems," Percy added apologetically, "most media is consumed in short, soundless clips while scrolling through feeds. Your demeanor at public events is your opportunity to win your public without even saying a word."

How anyone, Percy or otherwise, could learn to navigate social media was beyond Hermione, who had not been permitted to have any since the early days of her relationship at Hogwarts. Needless to say, a lot had changed since 2010.

"So what exactly is, um. The perception of me, I guess?" she asked her war council. "Better since we started tweeting regularly, I hope."

"Your dedication to your causes is translating well," Padma assured her. "People do perceive you as compassionate and outspoken. However," she began, and paused, looking again to Percy. "There have been… some setbacks."

"That I'm bossy and driving my staff away, you mean?" In recent times there had been several articles about how Hermione was 'unlikeable,' which was a deeply misogynistic term if she had ever heard one. She assumed the main issue were the male British pundits, who all seemed to take issue with her keeping Draco from his father and/or the pubs.

Last week, Draco's "very close school friends" Crabbe and Goyle complained to the Daily Prophet how little they'd seen of their Prince—as if any of that were true. Her marrying Draco had done absolutely nothing to stop him from playing some absurd form of lawless ping-pong in his office with Harry just last week.

"I'm afraid that since your intention to attend the USA state dinner was published, Lady Bellatrix Lestrange has made it her mission to discredit you," Percy said, and Hermione groaned. "Oddly, she's taken a feminist approach."

"What?" Only on opposite day could that be true. "How?"

"Well," Padma ventured uncomfortably, "she's taken the stance that by failing to revolt against the monarchy, you are… _not_ a feminist." She cleared her throat, adding, "Or at least somewhat duplicitous or inauthentic in your public support of women."

"Oh, so she's going to revolutionize the movement by throwing stones at other women? _Wonderful,_" Hermione growled. "Love it when we step on each other and call it noble."

"I wouldn't worry about it. Bellatrix is easy to prove wrong," Padma assured her. "There's plenty we can do to make your _actual_ agenda obvious, and I'm working on securing a few things to ensure you have an opportunity to be heard."

"You are?" Hermione echoed, pleased and surprised. This was precisely why she'd wanted someone outside the aristocracy to work with her, since surely anyone blue-blooded wouldn't have dared encourage something so unsavory.

"Well, there's some risky ideas," Padma admitted. "My main goal at present is to get you to voice a documentary about the movement to educate women in various countries throughout the Commonwealth."

"That… wow," Hermione said, astonished. "Padma, that would be—"

"Optimistic," Padma cut in quickly, tempering her expectations. "We're not sure we can get the Palace on board, but it's a possibility. Otherwise there are speaking engagements, certain organizations we can try to feature—"

"On the subject, I'm also meeting with a few up-and-coming female designers," Astoria contributed, as Padma nodded for her to continue. "All sustainably and ethically sourced and scattered throughout the Commonwealth. Padma approved the list last night and I submitted to Snape for approval this morning," she added, and though Hermione wanted very much to praise her gratuitously for her initiative, she had a feeling Astoria might take more kindly to a subtler implication that she'd done well.

"Thank you, Astoria," Hermione said, as if this were a normal day and her very high expectations had been met to their usual standards.

"Of course." Astoria nodded and Padma resumed her items of business.

"Now, about the Dursleys," Padma continued. "We're being told it's a non-issue, so we'll not worry about that at the moment. We're working closely with the office at Grimmauld, but so far we're in agreement with the Duke and Duchess's Chief of Staff that no response is required. As for your coming engagements—"

"Wait, what?" said Hermione. For some reason she had been expecting everything Padma said to eventually make sense, but even after a few seconds to contemplate it, nothing did. "The… Dursleys?"

"Primarily it's Vernon, the former director at an industrial firm called Grunnings," said Percy, taking over when Padma faltered. "His sister Margery is a minor factor, but the son, Dudley, is a slightly bigger issue. He's a YouTuber with a small but persistent following, and I'm afraid both are fairly…" He cleared his throat. "Put it this way: Vernon Dursley was let go from Grunnings last year after making some colorful comments about immigrants to an Eastern European colleague. Ironic, considering his wife is of Indian descent," he added to Padma, who rolled her eyes in agreement, "but unsurprisingly, she seems to keep tight-lipped on the subject of her ethnic background."

"Okay," Hermione said, still confused. "That's… I can see how that might make him an issue in general, but how is a minor conservative pundit relevant to us?"

"Vernon and Petunia Dursley are the extended family of Lily Evans Potter," Padma explained to Hermione, who frowned. "She was survived by a sister, brother-in-law, and nephew, none of whom could be considered pundits so much as vehement social media users."

"Wait." Narcissa's comments at Draco's investiture came back to her. "You're talking about Harry's uncle? And cousin?" She'd been so distracted since their trip to Wales that she'd forgotten to hound Pansy about it.

"To our knowledge, the Duke of Grimmauld is aware of their presence in the media of late," Percy said with a nod, "but according to him they have not approached him directly."

"Well, I should hope not." Hermione frowned. "Would they even be able to?"

"No, and they've been open about their issues with that as well," Padma said. "They've been very vocal about—" She glanced at Percy, then shrugged. "Well, you know. Racism, the downfall of society, foreigners, that sort of thing. There's really no need to worry you. It's just noise."

Hermione glanced at Astoria, who gave her a surprisingly Daphne-esque shrug of _don't worry, we can talk about it later._

"Okay," Hermione said slowly. "And outside of the Dursleys?"

"There's no delicate way to put this, so I'm just going to let the internet put it indelicately," Padma said, sliding her iPad across the table to Hermione.

It was a picture of Hermione and Abraxas at their recent engagement, and although Hermione expected it to be bad press about her, it wasn't. Instead, there was what appeared to be a headline speculating about Abraxas' failing health.

"What? This is absurd," Hermione said with a frown. "Abraxas is perfectly healthy."

Padma and Percy exchanged a glance.

"It's nothing new to speculate about the future of the crown," Padma said gently. "It's an old argument that Lucius represented Abraxas' decline, hence public perception of conflict between them. But with you and Draco, the optics are quite different." She swiped to another image in the slideshow. "You can see how Abraxas' age is starting to show."

Hermione stared at her own forcefully idyllic expression and suddenly hoped nobody had told Abraxas to look less old the same way they told her to smile less enthusiastically, though she imagined they must have. The insistence on his experience now felt rather defensive in retrospect, and Hermione was now quite certain that Abraxas' own versions of Percy and Padma had sat him down for a similar meeting this morning.

"There's nothing to be done about it," Percy assured her. "You only ought to prepare yourself for trouble ahead. Many feel the disruption in succession to be a sign that the monarchy will die with His Majesty, and given his age, that is… not as distant as it could be," he finished hesitantly.

"But there are more who approve of the outcome, aren't there?" Hermione argued. "What happened to Draco being more beloved than Lucius and all that?"

"He is, and there are," Padma said quickly. "Your job has not changed. However, ours has. From now on all of your appearances, your communications, your outreach and patronage—and your wardrobe," she clarified with a glance at Astoria, "are going to be strategically selected to showcase one thing: that the United Kingdom is in capable hands."

With that Padma clicked off the screen on her iPad, closing it with a remarkable amount of positivity given everything they'd just discussed.

"Is there anything else?" she asked with a glance at Percy, who shook his head.

"Snape will probably speak to you and Draco together about your joint appearances next week," he said, and Hermione struggled not to make a face.

"Alright," she sighed. "And I'm sure you know, but just a reminder that we're going to Norfolk for Jamie's birthday—"

"Yes, that's been noted. I will be accompanying you for the three days you're away," Percy said, "as will Astoria."

"I'll stay here to manage your office," Padma told her. "Unless you'd like me to come?"

"No, no, that's fine, I don't want to disrupt your life unnecessarily. And actually, are you sure you want to go?" Hermione asked, turning to Astoria. "I can't imagine you'd want to leave Alex behind."

"He'll be in New York, actually," she said. "And you do have a public engagement while you're away, so I'd rather be there to get a better idea of your security protocol."

"Oh, well that's great, then," Hermione said, relieved. "If that's all, I won't keep you," she added, and at her permission to leave, Percy and Padma rose to their feet, expressing their goodbyes and exchanging notes as they went.

"Alright, spill." Hermione capped her pen (with which she had written basically nothing) and turned to Astoria. "What's with the Dursleys?"

"Absolute horror shows," said Astoria flatly, shifting into the empty seat directly across from Hermione. "The father hates immigrants and the son does god-knows-what on YouTube. I think they were both on local news due to the sacking from Grunnings, though as far as I can gather nobody's taking them seriously. The wife is—" She shrugged. "Quiet. Pinched face, terrible clothes, seems like a prop to the other two. But at least she doesn't say much."

"Was this some big news item I missed or something?" Hermione asked, bewildered, and Astoria shook her head.

"Not at all, but I asked around a bit. Subtly," she added. "I just thought you ought to know."

"That's good of you." It really was, since apparently Hermione had been living under some sort of Buckingham Palace-shaped rock. "Is this all coming up now for a reason, or…?"

Astoria nodded. "The Daily Prophet did a feature on Snape after he was appointed Draco's Chief of Staff. Thanks to him, Lily Potter has been in the press again." With that, Hermione felt very sure she understood why Pansy had been angry with Draco. Harry might not have thought about the avalanche of press to follow Snape's appointment, but Pansy almost certainly had.

"What's the sister's name?" Hermione asked. "Persimmon?"

"Worse. Petunia," Astoria said, making a face. "Lily was _clearly_ the favorite."

"Well, that explains 'Dudley,' I guess." Hermione drummed her fingers on the desk. "Why did Padma bring it up if they've determined it's a non-issue?"

"That I'm not sure about," Astoria admitted. "They appear to be protecting you from something, though I don't know what. I'll ask Padma," she added. "She'll probably tell me if nobody else from Draco's staff is around."

Hermione was pleased her two closest staff members were getting along. "I agree, she most likely will. Though I can't imagine what the connection would be." She paused, frowning. "I can't imagine Harry would want them in his life."

"Neither can I," Astoria scoffed. "And certainly Pansy will want nothing to do with them. They're precisely the sort who'll do anything for a payout."

"And all this just because we promoted Snape?" Hermione asked, bemused.

"Mm, more like it's the perfect storm," Astoria said. "Now that Harry has officially stepped back from military duty he's a much bigger target in the press. He's also quite popular, and with immense popularity comes vitriol as well."

"What do the Dursleys even talk about with the press?" Hermione asked, being unable to imagine what interest anyone would have in distant royal relatives who hadn't seen him in years. "They don't know anything about Harry."

"No, but they know Lily, and they knew Snape," Astoria said matter-of-factly. "They've called him all sorts of terrible things—a social climber, primarily. Trying to get in with the posh sort despite being born into poverty, that sort of thing."

Hermione blinked. "I didn't know that."

"He and Lily both came up from humble beginnings," Astoria explained. "The Dursleys reek of envy, though of course it's easier to cast blame. It's terrible, though," she murmured to herself. "Lily Potter isn't here to defend herself. And neither is Sirius Black," she added in an afterthought. "He's the one who had them muzzled around the time of James and Lily's death, but now that he's gone…" She trailed off knowingly.

"You know, I really don't know much about Harry's godfather," Hermione admitted with a frown. "Only what Harry's told me, which isn't a whole lot."

Astoria shrugged. "He was a secretive man, I think. Never married, rarely left his country estate. All anyone had to say about him was that he was gregarious while he was in school and then reclusive after that."

"When did he die?"

"I was… thirteen or so? I remember thinking his memorial photo was so handsome, which is awful of me, I know." She gave Hermione a wry half-smile. "I wasn't as bad as Daph, at least. She stole Dad's copy of the paper and put his photo in her school bag."

Hermione groaned. "Oh my god, she did _not_—"

"She _did_," Astoria said with quite a shrill giggle, and for a moment, Hermione felt the same warmth she usually did around Pansy and Daphne.

"You know, I really have to thank you," Hermione said, taking advantage of the moment. "Not that I didn't expect you to do well here, but I've really been impressed with how much you've done."

"Oh, it's no different from being a WAG," said Astoria, flippantly dismissive. "Research their interests, read their press, that sort of thing. At least choosing proper hemlines for you gives me a better reason to shop."

"Well, as long as you're enjoying it," Hermione said. "Or, you know. Not hating it."

"I'm not," Astoria assured her. "It's been rather pleasant having something to think about that isn't whether I look too fleshy in my cocktail dress."

"Astoria, you look fantastic," Hermione admonished quickly. A bit thin, sure, but there was no point saying that. "You shouldn't worry at all."

"Well, you say that now, but you should see Alex's colleagues' wives. They're all onto their seconds and thirds by now, of course," she joked. "All those doe-eyed socialites look at me like I'm just the first wife, destined to be cheated on and dropped by thirty."

Hermione's heart sank, wondering if this was what had prompted Astoria's sudden interest in a distraction. "Oh, Astoria—"

"In any case, anyone who wants attention as badly as the Dursleys will not be made to disappear quietly," she said, ignoring Hermione's response and definitively closing the door on the subject. Hermione would have to try again later, it seemed. "Though I suppose there is nothing to connect it to you," Astoria added, "so assuming Rita Skeeter doesn't have some desperate wish to destroy Pansy, it should blow over soon enough."

"Good thing Pansy didn't threaten Rita Skeeter with treason or anything," Hermione remarked with a grimace, recalling that only three months had passed since Pansy had done just that. Surely Rita Skeeter would find all this beneath her, though. What would she possibly have to gain from the Dursleys?

Hermione shuddered, reminding herself not to open the door for chaos. "In any case, should we get back to work?" she asked Astoria. "I'd like to try out this speech on you, if you don't have anything else going on."

"Well, there's your fitting with the Emilia Wickstead camp this afternoon, but nothing else until I get the go-ahead from Snape," Astoria said, settling back in her chair. "Speech away. Unless you're going to go on all night," she said, "in which case I'll have to leave. Alex is meeting with his chairman at ours tonight, so I'll be on entertaining duty."

"What's that like?" Hermione asked her.

"Well, so long as I drink my wine in the kitchen, nobody notices me at all," Astoria replied, which was yet again something Hermione decided not to push until another time.

* * *

Their goddaughter's third birthday called for a mini-break in the country, which was a welcome escape following the chaos Hermione and Draco had been slowly adjusting to since their return from their honeymoon. It was very likely the only holiday they'd take for quite a while, and despite the fact that Draco was still working with Percy to coordinate some things for the coming weeks, he and Hermione were both determined to enjoy it.

"Mignonette!" Draco said, plucking Jamie up from the ground and tossing her into the air, causing Hermione's ovaries to momentarily explode. She was in no hurry for motherhood, but that didn't mean she didn't have certain moments of domestic craving whenever she watched Draco with Jamie. "And how old is my best girl today?"

"Mummy's got a baby in her tummy," Jamie told him with open suspicion.

"Yes, but it's your day today," Draco reminded her, tickling her until she squealed.

"It's Daddy's birthday too," Jamie shrieked, wiggling to be set on her feet and then grabbing Draco's hand, tugging him inelegantly to the garden to where Prince Lucius (the dog) was napping in the sun. "LOOK AT HIM!" she shouted, full of childish exuberance as Draco flashed a playfully helpless glance over his shoulder at Hermione.

She waved him off, feeling a nudge at her elbow.

"Funny seeing you here," said Theo, shading his eyes. Harry loped over next him, dressed in a pair of bright coral shorts.

"Ah, the birthday boy," she said with a grin, sliding an arm around Harry's waist. "Or are we really just pretending you don't have one now?"

"Quiet, Cali, or you'll summon the trickster gods," Theo warned. "And I am also here, by the way."

"I see you, Theo, I know you're not a house plant—"

"Excellent. Now that's done, I'll return to camouflage," Theo said, and wandered away to collapse in the grass beside his dog.

"Where are Pansy and Daphne?" Hermione asked, turning to Harry.

"Pans was a bit tired, so I had her lie down. You know how prone she is to premature births." He grinned at her and she rolled her eyes, elbowing him. "Daphne's finishing up a call and then she said she's ours for the rest of the weekend."

"Oh good, that'll be nice. I'll have to tell her thanks for making room for our staff," Hermione added with a sigh. "I've never felt so absurdly self-important as I do bringing my assistant on holiday."

"Ours are here as well," Harry assured her. "Hence inviting the Bad Lad with the most rooms to host our daughter's birthday party."

"Well, we always have a good time here." Hermione glanced over to where Draco and Jamie were chasing each other in circles around Theo and dog Prince Lucius, which was apparently part of some sort of incomprehensible toddler game. "I can't believe she's three already."

"Nor can I," Harry sighed. "And Pansy's only got about six weeks to go, which I can believe even less."

"Are you excited?" Hermione asked him.

Harry glanced down at her, unable to prevent a smile. "I'm sure I don't have to explain to you what it feels like to watch your dreams come true."

Her heart warmed for him. "I'm glad things have been going well, then."

"Oh, I won't let anything spoil it, believe me." He shaded his eyes from the sun. "Snape's not here, I hope?"

"No, he stayed at our public office. Percy's here, though."

"Ah, Percy's fine." He returned his attention to her. "Neville's here too, by the way."

"He is?" She tried to determine how she felt about that. "Well, I suppose it's not as if that's any stranger than Percy being here, or Astoria."

"I believe he's seeing someone," Harry added in a low voice. "Though Pansy tells me we're not supposed to bring it up."

"Well, that's totally unacceptable and _the worst_," Hermione grumbled, "though why on earth would I bring it u-"

"Tell me whatever secrets you're ensconcing AT ONCE," announced Blaise, manifesting at Hermione's other side and startling her. "In fact, minus ten for not immediately summoning me at the point the conspiracy began."

"We're not telling secrets," Harry assured him. "You know we haven't got any."

"Horrendous," sighed Blaise. "Minus fifteen for crushing disappointment."

"DADDY, I WANT A PUPPY," shouted Jamie.

"Oh no, not again," Harry muttered, releasing Hermione with a squeeze. "Jamie, Mummy already told you puppies aren't real," Harry yelled across the garden, jogging over to where a laughing Draco had clearly made promises that Pansy would soon make him regret.

In their wake, Hermione glanced at Blaise, who sighed.

"_What_?" he demanded.

"What… what's what? I didn't say anything," she protested innocently.

"Oh Christ—someone told you, didn't they?"

"Told me what?"

"Yes, he's seeing someone," Blaise informed her irritably. "If he weren't, I wouldn't have invited him here."

She gaped at him, feigning shock. "Who? Neville? I wasn-"

"Do you want to lose points?"

"Fine, I was," she backtracked quickly, despising once again his uncanny ability to read her expression. "But _Blaise_, I genuinely don't know why you put yourself _through_ this—"

"Thibaut told me something recently about how our choices make us what we are," he replied, voice light. "Seeing as I have never claimed to be anything but deeply flawed, it should be no surprise to any of us that I tend to choose accordingly."

"Oh _honestly_, Blaise—"

"There you are," said Neville, ambling up to them from the house. Pansy was at his side, and privately, Hermione marveled a bit at the idea that the two of them had dated for so long. How had they not suspected sooner that it was a farce on all sides?

"Daphne's looking for you, Hermione," Neville said, interrupting her thoughts. "She said she has some sort of stash you'll want before it gets confiscated, which I have to assume is drugs—"

"Please. We all know it's an ungodly sized tub of Haribo gummies," Pansy said with a roll of her eyes, Jamie's birthday cake sat atop the curve of her belly. "What I _don't_ know is why they still bother with any secrecy at all. It's been the exact same coalition of ineptitude since we were at uni."

"Hey. Snitches get stitches," Hermione warned, just as she heard an identifiable throat-clearing sound at her elbow. "Oh, Percy—"

"I beg your pardon, but there's been a request by His Majesty to speak with the Prince," Percy said. "You asked not to be disturbed, but under the circumstances…"

"Oh, of course. DRACO," Hermione shouted, waiting until he looked up from afar. "CALL FOR YOU."

"Ah," said Percy, adjusting his cuff link. "Well, I suppose I could have managed that."

"Don't be silly, Percy, it's obviously beneath you," Hermione assured him, observing with a sudden keen interest that beside her, Blaise had a suppressed sort of smile on his face. "Oh, Percy, have you met Blaise? He's—"

"The worst of the Bad Lads," Blaise provided, offering a hand to be shaken.

"I was going to say an excellent financial advisor, actually," Percy corrected him. "I believe you worked with my oldest brother on something recently?"

"Oh, yes, Bill," said Blaise. Hermione, who had forgotten that Blaise had an actual job, looked on with amusement. "How is he?"

"Doing very well," Percy said drily, "or so I imagine is always true when one is dating a French supermodel."

"Oh, that reminds me—Fleur rang this morning promising to make an appearance," Pansy said, as Percy gave another flushed look that Hermione loosely translated as _ah fuck, I forgot you guys know her_. As they turned to Pansy, Hermione noted with interest that Neville's brow had furrowed slightly from Blaise and Percy's interaction. "She may pop by tomorrow if her schedule allows. Neville, carry this over there, would you?" Pansy added, shifting the cake in her hands and handing it to him. "I've just remembered I need to bring out some silverware before my husband starts eating this by the fistful."

"Your child, you mean?" asked Hermione.

"The terms are interchangeable," Pansy said, turning back to the house after nudging Neville in the direction of Harry and Jamie. Draco had finally jogged over, though she noticed he was empty-handed.

"Where's your phone?"

"Jamie has it, she's FaceTiming Helen. I'll just use the one in Theo's office—"

"Helen who? Wait. She's FaceTiming my mom?" Hermione asked, blinking.

"Well, Helen called me, so naturally I answered—"

"My mother called _you_?"

"We chat," said Draco ambiguously, kissing Hermione's forehead. "Any explanation for the call, Percy?"

Percy nudged his glasses up his nose. "It would be best, I think, for your grandfather to explain it—"

"Alright, alright." Draco kissed Hermione again before taking off for the house at another jog.

"Very nice meeting you," said Percy to Blaise, who nodded in reply. Then Percy inclined his head and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, glancing up at the summer sun with a languid half-smile before wandering into the house.

"Well," Blaise said, gaze following Percy as he went. "He's rather easy on the eyes, isn't he?"

"Percy, really?" Hermione asked him, amused. "I wouldn't have guessed he'd be your type."

"Well, because you don't know where to look," Blaise assured her, adjusting her shoulders to face the direction Percy had gone. "All his clothes are custom-tailored. The shoes are Italian, the cologne is French, the glasses are this season's Tom Ford and his face is excellent. Which is no surprise, clearly," he remarked at a murmur, "since between Bill and Fleur I can't say I'd ever be able to choose. I'd just congratulate them both on winning the points game and eventually surface from my inevitable coma some years later."

"How do you know that about Percy's clothes?" asked Hermione with a frown, trying and failing to notice any identifiable markers even after Percy had disappeared into the house. "Nothing he's wearing has a logo."

"Exactly," Blaise said. "Twenty points for noticing. Has Daphne met him yet?" he asked tangentially, and Hermione shook her head. "Good, let me do it. She'll covet him entirely and I need the validation." He released Hermione's shoulders and sighed, "A pity he's so obviously straight."

"Wait, hang on—"

"Are you coming?" Daphne asked, materializing from the house in a whirl of summer-bright clementine perfume. "Thank god I'm off that call, I thought I was going to die in the middle of it. Come on," she announced, looping one arm through Hermione's and one through Blaise's. "We can have some cake before we bust out the hard stuff."

"Liquor?" asked Blaise, at the same time Hermione asked, "Tangfastics?"

"Yes and yes." Daphne winked at them both, pulling them over to where Pansy, Neville, and Harry had begun setting up Jamie's cake.

* * *

Hermione had all but forgotten Draco's afternoon disappearance until dinner that night, which was relatively informal. Astoria had joined them, being primarily Daphne's sister and off the clock, but aside from her and Neville, it was another perfectly forgettable gathering of their usual friends.

"God, I always forget Harry can cook," Daphne groaned, holding a hand to her stomach. "Why do we always eat at ours? That was absolutely delicious."

"I've been craving nothing but spice lately," Pansy admitted. (She, thankfully, was not openly hostile to Draco, though Hermione still hadn't had a chance to speak to her alone.) "He's been doing much more cooking than anyone else as of late."

"It's my pleasure," Harry assured her, raising her knuckles to his lips. "You just keep growing whatever it is you're growing in there. Sense of humor or whatever it is."

"Bones," Pansy said. "Skin."

"Devotion to the realm," suggested Theo from across the table.

"Please, Theodore, I'm well in my third trimester," said Pansy. "Do not openly disrespect me on the table where we eat."

From Theo: "Excuse me? This is my house."

From Pansy, unapologetically: "Only physically."

Theo: "What does that mean?"

From Blaise, delighted: "I don't know, but ten points for intrigue."

From Hermione: "I'm assuming it's in reference to the ghosts? You did say there had been beheadings somewhere in your lineage."

Theo, aghast: "Not _here_, Cali. Not _inside_."

Pansy: "Certainly not where we eat."

Theo: "Certainly not!"

Blaise, lamentingly: "It is my sincerest regret that I've seen a grand total of zero ghosts since we started coming here. I suppose I'm destined to be always the haunter, never the hauntee."

From Draco: "Hortense and Thibaut think Percy's our resident palace ghost. He had a trick staircase installed just to get them to leave us alone for a week."

From Neville, turning to Blaise: "That's precisely the sort of thing to win you over, isn't it?"

Blaise, airily: "I wouldn't know. From what I know of myself, I'd hardly turn my own head."

Pansy, admonishingly: "Don't sell yourself short, Blaise. You'd spare a glance in your direction."

Harry: "Just a glance? Please. Imagine the points he'd win."

Draco: "Nobody tell him about that sheep they cloned in the nineties."

From Daphne, with a laugh: "My god, are we actually _feeding_ his narcissism now?"

Theo: "Greengrass, please. We all know Blaise's pizzazz is a self-cleaning organ."

Hermione, with a frown: "I… think you might be thinking of something else?"

Pansy: "Do not be crass, Hermione. There are children present."

Neville: "Isn't Jamie asleep?"

Pansy, with a pointed glance at him: "Yes."

Hermione, protestingly: "Okay, first of all, the boys don't even know what we're talking about—"

Draco: "I didn't before, but oddly I've pieced it together."

Hermione: "—and secondly, it's not my fault my mother has always gone into great detail to describe the anatomical details of my—"

Pansy: "If you say it, Hermione, do not mistake me, I will scream."

Daphne, delighted: "Oh my god do it, do it right now—"

Pansy: "Don't be ridiculous, Daphne. I would never actually scream."

Harry: a smirk, which went unmissed by the rest of the table.

Blaise, loudly: "In any case, only you, Theodore, have ever had pizzazz, seeing as the rest of us make an effort to stop before things get rowdy. But ten points anyway, because I'm feeling oddly swayed by all this discussion of myself."

Daphne, with a roll of her eyes: "I can't _imagine_ why—"

Blaise: "And now that we've all forgotten what we were talking about, let's move on to the situation in Israel."

"I've been meaning to get around to that," Draco said, just as Harry's phone buzzed from where it sat on the table next to him.

"Odd," said Harry, glancing at his phone screen and then meeting Draco's questioning glance. "Hm? Nothing. I just got an email from Lupin."

"What?" asked Draco and Theo, which left Daphne and Hermione to ask the more pressing question of, "Who?"

"Oh, no one." Harry slid the phone back into his pocket. "He was my godfather's in-house counsel."

Pansy's entire countenance shifted. "A lawyer is contacting you?"

"Not about anything lawyerly, I don't think. I'll read the email later." Harry reached over Draco for another heaping of his chicken and coconut stew concoction while the rest of them exchanged brief, intensely loaded glances.

"Was he… close to your godfather?" Daphne asked Harry. "Or to you?"

"Well, he was always around," said Harry dismissively. "We were close for a bit, definitely. He was my tutor for a while, you'll remember that," he added to Draco and Theo, who nodded, "but then I went away to school and Sirius died and—" He shrugged. "Sirius left him enough to keep him comfortable for the rest of his life and he fucked off to the Highlands or something," he concluded, the serving spoon in his hand falling into the near-empty bowl with a clatter.

All of them knew Harry well enough to recognize when something shouldn't be poked or prodded.

"Well," said Hermione, intending to change the subject, though she ultimately turned to Draco with a small amount of desperation. It was extremely inconvenient how the moment she decided to discuss something else, it became deeply impossible to think of anything to say. "So, um—"

"Shacklebolt isn't attending the Bagman dinner," Draco announced in a mildly blurting manner, and Hermione's attention shot up.

"Shacklebolt? The Labour leader?"

"Yeeeees," Draco said with apparent remorse, having solved one problem with Harry's successful distraction but opened the door for quite another thing altogether. "He, er. He released a statement to the press this afternoon condemning Scrimgeour and—" He broke off. "And my grandfather as well. And us." He gave Hermione an apologetic glance and then looked down at his empty plate. "So is there any ice cream, or…?"

"That's really not good for you," Astoria commented, as everyone else at the table turned to her. "The news, I mean. Do what you will with the ice cream."

"They _know_ that," Daphne hissed, which Astoria appeared to ignore.

"It's not good for you specifically," Astoria said, turning to Hermione. "I'll go speak to Padma."

"What? No," Hermione assured her, "it's late, you don't need to do that right now—"

"No, I do." Hermione watched, astounded, as Astoria rose swiftly to her feet. "Thank you for dinner," she told the table. "I'll see you at breakfast in the morning."

She slipped out and Hermione glanced at Draco. "Did Percy say if we should…?"

Draco shook his head. "We'll discuss it with him later. No need to forego dessert on Jamie's birthday." He reached over and hooked his fingers with hers, giving her hand a comforting squeeze. "We've always known we'd have to do some degree of damage control," he said quietly, "and there was never a good chance Shacklebolt would have accepted his invitation anyway. What's done is done."

Hermione nodded uncertainly. "Okay."

"So," Draco said, turning his attention back to the table. "Ice cream?"

"Bet speculating about who leaves a fortune to one's _lawyer_ looks like a thrilling conversation change now," murmured Blaise to Harry before he was promptly stabbed with a butter knife.

* * *

Fleur arrived in a swirl of lemon chiffon the following morning, gleaming with a fresh summer tan and dropping kisses on each of their cheeks. Jamie was quiet at first, having met Fleur only a few times and still being totally in awe of her, though she was heard to whisper to Pansy, "But I thought Aunt Hermione was the princess," which was a sentiment Hermione found highly relatable.

Fleur got to work charming Jamie within minutes, proclaiming that she wanted 'one such as this _immédiatement_.' It didn't help that Fleur looked precisely like Elsa from _Frozen_, which made her essentially everything Jamie could ever want in a friend.

"I hope this hasn't got you feeling broody," Daphne commented to Theo, falling onto his lap with a sigh as they watched Jamie and Fleur sing along to _Let It Go_. "Cute as it is, I'm sorry to tell you I haven't changed my mind about having children."

"Greengrass, we have a son," Theo replied in mock-outrage, reaching over to cover dog Prince Lucius' ears. "He can _hear_ you—"

Daphne shoved his arm with a laugh. She'd confided to Hermione during their most recent episode of wine-and-couch time that she'd gotten less anxious about her lack of maternal craving, but it still concerned her that Theo might simply be humoring her in the hopes she'd one day change her mind. "It feels like there's something wrong with me," Daphne had confessed, though looking at her now, it didn't seem like there was anything missing from her life. As much as Hermione hoped that something would eventually change her _own_ mind, she didn't begrudge Daphne her disinterest.

"Hey," Draco said, resting a hand on Hermione's shoulder as he materialized from the other room. "Come for a run with me?"

"I hope that's a euphemism for something much more fun," she replied, twisting around to look at him. Tragically, he was dressed in running gear and did not seem to mean sex.

"Sorry sweetheart, not this time. Flint'll have my head if I don't."

"Ugh, Flint can go fork himself," Hermione said, though she grudgingly dragged herself upright, conceding to follow him. Their head of security had mentioned more than once how little chance she had at surviving any sort of hostage situation, which he blamed on her general dislike for anything more than light stretching. Shamefully, though, being one of the most photographed women in the world was a far more compelling reason for Hermione to stay in shape.

"How's it going with Astoria?" Draco asked as she groaned through the process of lacing her shoes.

"Really well, actually." She glanced up, reading his expression. "Has Rita got a problem with it yet?"

"No telling yet. It's a big news day." He smiled at her, reassuring. "Ready?"

She made a face. "No."

"Alright, let's go."

She expected him to bring up something about the Bagman state visit, since it had clearly taken up most of his afternoon yesterday. She was almost positive their very trudging jog (Draco was catering to her skill level, which was non-existent) was an excuse to strategize and she was surprised, truthfully, that Percy wasn't somewhere nearby, jogging next to them with his iPad.

"So," she said, already bored within the first quarter-mile, "are we going to talk about this?"

"What, Astoria? I've always liked her. And I know it was an easy decision for y-"

"No, Draco, not Astoria," Hermione said, already panting a bit. "I'm… she's fine. She's great, actually—"

"She is, isn't she? I was surprised. If anything I thought she'd be a bit more Pansy-ish."

"No, I meant—oh, speaking of Pansy," Hermione said, with her usual goldfish attention span. "Are you guys okay now, or…?"

"Well, she informed me I was being shortsighted and selfish and 'just because I would one day rule Britain itself did not make me the be-all and end-all of the universe,' but we're fine." He slid a glance at her. "Harry's had a tough time in the press recently, but that's not uncommon for him."

Given his… oh, _entire life_, Hermione was the first to agree that Prince Harry knew how to ignore bad press better than the rest of them. "Is any of it spilling over onto Pansy or Jamie?"

"Unfortunately I don't think we've seen the last of the Dursleys, no, but it'll pass." Draco gave her a little nudge to the right, taking a circular path around the Nott estate. "What do you think? Go twice around the gardens?"

"You shut your mouth," said Hermione caustically.

Draco laughed. "Fine, once, then."

"Have you seen this house? It's like a mile just to get from one wing to the other!"

"Fine, fine. We'll do twenty minutes out and walk back." He glanced at his watch. "We've got another—"

"Please say thirty seconds."

"—fifteen minutes," he corrected, and she groaned. "But hey, you're doing great."

"Oh, shut up." She sighed, remembering that fifteen minutes was plenty of time to have the same discussion they'd had several times now about Bagman and get it over with. "So look, I know with Shacklebolt calling out Scrimgeour—"

"Calling out? It's shots fired, honestly. 'Scrimgeour should not be rolling out the red carpet to honor a president who rips up vital international treaties, backs climate change denial and uses racist and misogynist rhetoric,' I believe were his exact words," Draco said.

Hermione winced at the reminder that Shacklebolt was a hundred-percent right. "He really makes the case for Bellatrix about me being a shitty feminist, huh?" she sighed, wishing she, too, could make an inflammatory political announcement and bail.

"Hey." Draco slowed to a halt, taking her hand. "We really don't need to talk about this right now."

"We don't?" She came to a delayed halt in her confusion. "But I thought—"

"Hermione, this has been killing you for weeks," Draco said, looking concerned. "You know it, I know it, my grandfather knows it—even _Astoria_ knows it, and she's only been working for you for a couple of weeks."

He took both her hands in his, brushing his lips across her knuckles.

"You forget," he told her quietly, "that if anyone knows what it's like to not be able to escape the pressures of public life, it's me. I have no interest in making you go through it right now."

The idea that they were not actually going to have another conversation about this was a sudden and unexpected relief. "So… wait. Then this was really just about running?"

He laughed, uproariously this time; the precise sort of laugh he never gave at official functions. "Yes, it was 'just' about running," he managed after a second. "Did you think I had some sort of ulterior motive for getting you out of the house?"

"Um, yes—obviously."

"Well, my fault. I never properly explained to you that this is difficult work, and that it never really ends." He kissed her hands again, then released them in favor of tugging her into his chest. "I know what it's like to need a break," he reminded her, her cheek resting against his shirt as he folded his arms around her. "I don't want you to forget that there's more between us than just what we do in front of the cameras. I want to make you happy, and I want to make a life with you. And that life includes relying on each other for escape from time to time," he added, pulling away to lift her chin with one finger.

"We can't run from everything," she grumbled, meeting his eye. "Figuratively or literally."

"We're not running from it. We've already done everything we can. What are we supposed to accomplish right now, hm?" he asked her, grey gaze solemnly on hers. "I know you don't like my grandfather's decision. I don't like it either, but Scrimgeour is PM, not either of us, and Grandfather's role has limits."

"I do know that. I promise, I know, I understand." She grimaced. "I wasn't going to change my mind at the last second or anything—"

"Hermione, there's no need to reassure me. I have absolute faith in you." He gave her a softened look. "I chose you as my partner because I knew I could trust your judgment. I _have_ trusted it, fully, for the last eight years." She closed her eyes when he kissed her forehead, then her cheek. "The others may joke about it," he murmured, "but Hermione Granger, girl of my dreams, your conscience is unerring. Your heart is good and your judgment is sound. I've been set properly on course for having had you in my life, not the other way around. Surely you must know how much that means to me, and if you don't—"

He tipped her chin up again, centering a kiss on her lips this time.

"I'm happy to tell you as many times as you need to hear it for the rest of your life," he promised her, as she deepened the kiss gratefully—not out of believing him, of course, since she wasn't nearly so confident that she knew what to do. But she was glad for the reminder that while he had gone through this alone for most of his life, he would never allow her to do the same.

Narcissa's words rankled a bit in her mind—_make sure he is advised well, by you and only you_—as Hermione considered again what she would do if there were not the factor of Abraxas, or the preservation of the royal family, or if she were a representative of herself and her own beliefs rather than one of the prongs on the British crown. Would she advise Draco to do this, if it were up to her?

But then Draco's hand cupped the back of her head and she decided, definitively, that there was nothing they could do about it now. Plus kissing him was a better excuse than most to get out of running for the day.

"Why is your heart beating so fast?" she laugh-whispered, slipping her hands under his shirt to curve them around his ribs.

"Dunno," he said, smiling through their kiss. "Guess you still make me nervous."

"We're _married_. And when have I ever made you nervous?" she scoffed into his mouth.

"Oh, if you only knew." He kissed her swiftly, then tugged her hand. "And you're not getting out of this," he added, picking up the pace as he returned to a light jog.

"What? _Draco_—"

"Hermione, may I remind you that there's a perfectly good bed inside," he told her sternly, steering them both towards the house. "I think we've done more than enough damage to Theo's gardens over the years, don't you?"

"Race you, then," she said, giving his smug royal arse a decidedly rewarding smack before taking off at a sprint, having finally summoned the motivation.

* * *

She received a new round of royal coaching from Snape in advance of the American visit, which of course she loathed entirely. Needless to say, being drilled on her curtsy was less fun when it was someone other than Theo and Daphne doing it. The only benefit was having Astoria and Padma there, because at least once Snape had drawled on and on about the important guests (and when to curtsy and to _whom_ and who was eligible for curtsying and who, in turn, had to bow to _her, _which was surprisingly almost everyone) they were able to mock him behind his back, having all borne witness to his brand of interminable drudgery. They were really coming to work well together, Hermione thought with satisfaction, and though Astoria wasn't able to open up about her problems yet, she did seem to laugh more freely, which was a step in the right direction.

Draco, meanwhile, was exuberantly pleased to finally have someone beside him. "You do realize this is the first state dinner where I won't have to have Theo sneak someone in to prevent me from losing my mind," he told her, absolutely delighted. Wives, Hermione thought, were very like shiny new toys for royals; no wonder Henry VIII had had so many. "And now you and I can discuss every dreadful thing that happened at the end of the night."

"Oh joy," said Hermione, though she agreed with him that there was something whimsically exciting about it. Aside from their wedding, she had only really seen Draco in full royal regalia in pictures. (The _DRAGONFLOWER_ blog was oddly still going strong, though it had morphed into more of a fashion blog about British royals, aristocrats, and socialites in general.) She did wish her first opportunity to wear a formal gown had not been on behalf of Bagman, who continued to exist without spontaneously vaporizing in spite of Hermione's best efforts.

"Oh, trust me, Grandfather despises him too," Draco assured her. "He thinks Bagman's a complete and utter buffoon, but unfortunately for all of us he was fairly elected by the rules of your country."

"Fairly? Not a chance," Hermione scoffed. "Even if you ignore the possible effect of social media or outside interference, the electoral college is absurd and _rigged_. Crouch won the popular vote by the equivalent of _three_ forking Iowas—"

"That means nothing to me," Draco reminded her cheerfully, "but the point stands. Ludo Bagman is the president of the United States of America. We may not agree with his politics or his demeanor, but we must acknowledge that he is rightfully—er, lawfully," he corrected himself, catching Hermione's look of supreme disagreement, "the leader of one of our major allies."

Ultimately she knew he was right. The press, meanwhile, seemed to have split itself in two over the subject of so-called 'lavish pomp' on behalf of the visiting Americans. Some sided with Shacklebolt, the Labour leader who'd chosen to condemn Scrimgeour for the diplomatic invitation, while some felt his actions distasteful and, indeed, un-British. Many were distracted by Umbridge, whose resignation from the post of foreign secretary and pending return to Parliament involved a lot of shrieking about closing borders, invoking a very Bagman-esque sentiment indeed.

Some praised Harry and Pansy for their non-attendance; some, like the Dursleys, who were quietly being watched by Draco and Hermione's office staff, accused them of a snub. Very few had anything new to say about Hermione, though there had been a sudden increase in articles outlining the finer details of royal protocol—as if the entire British press expected her to slip up and break them.

_PDA is looked down upon, she must curtsy to His Majesty and her husband the future king, she must not cross her legs, she will enter the room in this order, she will wear only the following insignia, she must be modest, she must not show cleavage, she must position her tiara at this precise degree, she must not eat garlic, _and most importantly_, __SHE MUST NOT MAKE POLITICAL STATEMENTS._

Not loud ones, anyway.

Hermione's green Daphne Nott gown, chosen months ago for whatever her first diplomatic occasion would be, was belted with a black sash in solidarity with the movement against sexual assault in the film industry. A subtle choice—_too_ subtle, in Hermione's opinion—but both her designer and her stylist were in sisterly agreement. "Everyone will be searching for meaning," Astoria said, as Daphne nodded her approval. "It won't be obvious, no, but you're British now. You're to say nothing and let them wonder."

"You _are_ British now," Daphne reminded Hermione, probably watching the momentary flicker of apprehension at hearing it. "As much as we all know American politics dominated the majority of your life, tonight you represent an entirely different country."

"A better one," added Astoria. "Certainly a more tasteful one."

Pansy held a similar view. "Just remember everyone will be looking at your every move," she said, and for once, it was not a warning. "Your posture. Your expression. Your distance or lack thereof. Everything about you will be performed for an audience of millions. Saying nothing will, for once, say everything."

Which was why Hermione was not particularly concerned about the fallout from her presence by the time the evening arrived, having resigned herself to whatever it would be. She had known she'd be in photographs beside Bagman and his wife, and thus the rehearsal for her smile this time around had been minimal: She wouldn't. She glanced at Draco and observed that both of them had kept a pointed distance from the visiting president.

She was somewhat disappointed to find that Bagman was… not obviously evil in person. No horns, no tail. He was a sweaty, rosy-cheeked man with definitely fake blond hair who made crass jokes like a senator from the 1950s. In many ways, he was what Hermione would have guessed a politician looked like, if not for having been given some hope during his predecessor's installment over the majority of her politically active years.

Photographers were not to be present for the dinner itself, thankfully, but Hermione had been schooled in how she was supposed to handle Bagman when they were introduced; Snape had personally drilled the conversation into her. Bagman would say _Your Highness_, she would unwillingly say _Mr President_, they'd chat for two lines of dialogue about the weather and then she'd move on and try to eat without hurling into her bowl of soup.

But that wasn't how it went.

"There she is, the famous Hermione Granger," announced Bagman after a swaggering bow, which prompted Hermione to freeze in place, taken aback by the improvisation. "Well, we've certainly made it big out here, haven't we? How about some love for a fellow countryman," he added with a broad grin, opening his arms for a hug.

The implication that they were in any way similar threatened to rot all her organs.

"Mr President," Hermione forced herself to say. A hug was out of the question; royal protocol aside, she would never have done it. Her skin crawled as she forced a laugh. "I'm glad to hear you've enjoyed your trip so far."

"Yeah, yeah… that husband of yours sure is stiff, huh? Thought he'd be more of a ladies' man—though I'm guessing you don't care to hear that." He winked at her. "Or maybe you already know? You're here anyway, tiara and all." _Tee-AIR-uh._ "People say I've got a good face for a crown too, you know. They tell me that all the time, actually. The best people always say that."

"Oh," said Hermione, glancing ahead for help, but Draco had been roped into conversation with Bagman's wife. "Well, um. I'm sure you know better than anyone that the American people love a democracy," she commented, feeling a moment of guilt. Hopefully nobody was around to catch her being passive-aggressive—though, on second thought, it _was_ very British of her to do.

"Ha," said Bagman, voicing his laugh with a boom. "You think that, don't you, but then you see the kind of attention people pay to royal weddings and royal this and royal that. You think they won't be won over by all this? Watching that old man kowtow to me is just the reminder they need going into midterm elections."

Hermione blinked, both at the open insult to Abraxas and at the reminder that this timing must have been strategic. It _was_ nearing elections, and many speculated the House of Representatives and the Senate were both going to flip to the opposing party—_her_ party of choice, being the twisted fanatic of basic human rights that she was.

Though of course not enough people knew that, seeing how she could not make any political statements aside from a thin velvet sash.

"Anyway, you done good, girl," Bagman said, clapping a hand on her shoulder as she struggled not to flinch. "I don't need to tell you that you played your hand right. Funny how simple it all is in the end, isn't it? You can turn 'em so fast. Like _that_," he said, snapping his fingers for emphasis. "Hell, I paid a fortune for the right guys but it was worth it, they spin that shit like gold. You know how many things I could have trademarked in the last year and made a fortune? Nasty. Lyin'. All the clever stuff, it sticks. It sinks in, people remember. That's all me. That's all _in here_," he added, tapping his forehead. "But they did it one better. This is what the Democrats don't understand—they're stodgy, stiff, not like me. People love me. Democrats don't get it. People loved Arnold, they loved Reagan, it doesn't matter anymore if they see you in Hollywood or on Wall Street so long as they see you and like you. People think it's about going to Harvard but it's different now, kids these days. Reality TV, it's all about celebrity. Clout. They wanna see that 'it factor.' It's about having _it_, and my ratings? Through the roof. _The roof_. They tell me all the time, Ludo, you're the best, everybody loves you, you gotta run. Not Democrat—too PC. Everybody's canceling this and that now. Loony left, all that bullshit about swapping genders left and right and the black vote and the woman vote and the Mexican vote, nobody likes that. So they say Ludo, you got a whole crowd of people just waiting for you, and after a while I had to agree. We're Americans, we need a _better America_." He gave her a pointed glance. "You get it."

"Actually, I do." She kept her voice low, but given that astounding pile of soliloquous horseship, they had attracted the room's attention. "We—_they_," she corrected herself, "_do_ need a better America. One that you certainly aren't giving them."

Across the room, Snape signaled to her. Loose translation? _Get. The fork. Out._

Bagman must have known it, because he gave her a cold, mean look. "Why depend on a system to serve your needs when you can just buy the whole thing? You'd know that better than anyone, Princess."

He bowed again, mockingly this time. "Enjoy your crumpets," he advised, with the air of a man who'd just shown his true colors and known he would get away with it. With all of it.

She now really doubted that it was any small thing for him to come here. Tomorrow, the country she'd been born in would wake up to see their president standing beside a king, and he _wanted_ that image planted in their heads. He wanted that: dynasties. Bloodlines. This wasn't about an election cycle, but something else, something worse. This was a man who already had enough money to get away with every sin he'd committed before, and now he had the resources of an entire government behind him.

Bagman knew what Hermione hadn't yet realized, and her failure to see it sat like a stone in the pit of her stomach. His supporters had already shown that right or wrong, ethical or otherwise, they'd die to preserve the party line.

And how different was that from the British monarchy in the end?

Hermione walked stone-faced back to Draco, who placed a hand low on her back, leading her to their seats at the table with a worried sidelong glance. "Everything okay?"

"I forked up," she said quietly. "I forked this up completely. I shouldn't have been part of this," she whispered, moderately panicked, "and now I think I really, really forked it."

He glanced over his shoulder and quickly reached for her hand.

"We'll fix it," he promised her.

And because there was no way she could manage a single bite if she didn't, she decided to believe him. At least for just right now.

* * *

Sometimes it's impossible not to look around and think yep, these are doom days. On a macro level we've been in decline since the moment someone thought it'd be totally fine to just burn stuff into the air. Industrialization led to world wars, to nuclear codes, to natural disasters. I mean sure, people must have thought the world was ending when there were air raids in London or when people were dying every day of AIDS or during the plague or when some ghost-looking doink showed up and said their land was his now, but in times like these, it's hard not to wonder how things can possibly get better.

Luckily the only true impossibility is guessing the outcome of any single event. So I guess I'm just going to remind you that even when things look bleak, as Hortense would say, it's important to know that some freak stroke of lightning might accidentally light up the dark.

* * *

_**a/n: **__Ask not what reading fanfic while self-isolating at home can do for you, but what reading fanfic while self-isolating at home can do for your country. Thanks for reading! Everything is fine._


	4. Leave Lesser Thoughts to Idler Minds

**Chapter 4: Leave Lesser Thoughts to Idler Minds**

_**DIAGON ALLEY BOOKS, All things books from Diagon Publications  
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_An imprint of The Diagon Alley Press announces today it has completed negotiations for a new manuscript from NYT Bestselling Author and Daily Prophet correspondent __** RitaSkeeter**__. No title has been released, and there are no comments yet as to what the book will contain.  
_—_Skeeter's previous bestseller, DRACO AND HERMIONE: A ROYAL LOVE STORY, finished number 3 in total volumes sold for 2018, holding the top spot for biographical non-fiction.  
_—_Bestselling author of SISTER CUNNING, SISTER FAIR: DARK TRUTHS FROM THE HOUSE OF BLACK Lady Bellatrix Lestrange teases never before told secrets of the British Royal Family. A stark departure from the fairytale of last year's Royal Wedding, Skeeter's newest work may "cast light from the shadows," sources report._

_3:41 PM - 3 Jan 2019  
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_**BORGIN & BURKES, Publishing great authors since 1800  
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_After much deliberation, we are pleased to announce that Borgin & Burkes will be moving forward with our acquisition of __** gilderoylockhartofficial**_'_s forthcoming chronicle on the Royal House of Malfoy. More will be released on this matter as we prepare for publication._

_5:16 PM - 3 Jan 2019  
__**45**_ _Retweets __**296 **__Likes_

Well… forks.

For what it's worth, I have my suspicions _now_ what some of this may be about.

A few months ago, not so much.

* * *

_September 19, 2018  
London, England_

"Alright, this isn't funny," Hermione whispered, hoping not to wake the newest edition to their little crew of miscreants while she stroked his tiny balled-up fingers. "You can't just go around stealing birthdays, little one. It's generally frowned upon."

"Oh, who are we kidding. Take over," Daphne assured him cheerfully, perching at the edge of Pansy's feet in the hospital bed and giving her ankles a squeeze. "Have my birthday next time, I've no use for it."

"Just don't take Pansy's birthday," Theo advised with a shudder, folding his arms around his wife and resting his chin atop her head. "None of us can handle another Scorpio in the family."

"Theodore, be silent," said Pansy, though she didn't take her eyes from her infant son. It was one of two occasions where Hermione had seen her even remotely disheveled (Jamie's birth being the other one), but as with the first time, Pansy still managed to carry off a sheen of exhaustion and bliss. "Is Harry on his way with Draco?" she asked Hermione, and as if she'd summoned him by magic, the quiet unlatching of the hospital door revealed Harry in the frame with Jamie in his arms, the little girl's green eyes wide at the sight of her new brother.

"Hi, hi, we're back," whispered Draco, creeping into the room behind Harry. He was almost comically silent as Hermione reached for him, pulling him in with one arm around his waist.

"Why is everyone whispering?" Jamie asked Harry loudly.

"Because, Willow James, the baby's sleeping," said Harry, coming around to Pansy's other side and leaning his daughter over the bed. "See?"

"He's so squished?!" exclaimed Jamie.

"He'll grow into it," Theo assured her. "You were even squishier."

"Good," declared Jamie, crawling from Harry's arms into the bed and nudging Pansy's arm. "I can stay here?" she asked her mother hopefully, weaponizing a look of supreme innocence to secure her dominance. (Jamie had been finessing that particular ability over her toddler years and was, as Helen had once predicted, both extremely dangerous and acutely aware of it.)

"Of course," Pansy assured her, struggling to sit up until Draco came to her aid, helping her shift the arm she was using to hold the baby while Jamie snuggled into her other side. "Just be very quiet so we don't wake him."

"Why? Will he scream?" asked Jamie, intrigued by the possibility.

"Oh, he'll scream," Harry assured her. "You'll teach him how, I imagine."

The responsibility of that seemed to weigh on Jamie for a moment. Her little brow furrowed while she looked gravely around at the adults in the room, seeming to newly count herself among them.

"Okay," she said, accepting the implications and staring intently at her new brother, concentrating very hard on either not waking him or telepathically imparting her years of advanced wisdom.

"So is this it for you, then?" Hermione asked in stifled amusement, glancing up at Harry.

"Absolutely not," he said. "Three more."

"No," Pansy said flatly. "You have one of each, Henry. You're done."

"Plus you can't risk having a second son," added Blaise, slipping into the room behind them and striding over to where Hermione and Draco stood. "Disaster. Just ask Edward IV."

"This is not the time to discuss the Plantagenets," Pansy told him sternly, offering up a cheek to be kissed. "We've been waiting for you to arrive in order to do the naming."

"Dudley," suggested Theo blithely, and the others groaned.

"Do _not_," Daphne said, jabbing him in the ribs. "And anyway, I assume you'll be adhering to the tradition of naming boys after the future king?"

"I would," Pansy said, turning to Draco, "but… points."

From Draco, in a gamely manner: "I understand. Blaise should absolutely do the naming."

From Blaise, clapping a hand on his shoulder: "Fifty points for amicable princemanship."

From Hermione: "I agree, Blaise should do it."

From Harry: "I thought we agreed there would be no points-jumping? That's a clear points-jumping violation."

Hermione, bemused: "What? What does that mean?"

From Theo, dropping an imaginary flag: "You've clearly jumped onto Draco's point-earning sentiment in the hopes of earning your own points. Harry's right, it's a points-jump."

Hermione, lyingly: "I have not jumped Draco's points!"

Blaise, judiciously: "Truthfully Henry would know, being a notorious points-jumper himself—"

Harry, loftily: "I'm told it's something of a natural talent."

Blaise: "—so it'll be a minus five for New Tracey."

Hermione, indignantly: "Excuse me, it's my _birthday_—"

From Pansy: "Not anymore it's not."

Hermione, grumbling: "Fine, but only for today. Next year we're dividing it into equitable parts."

Blaise: "Ah, fifteen points to the Princess of Wales for her gracious acceptance of defeat."

Hermione: "Oh, thanks Bla- wait. Defeat?"

Draco, in a sidelong whisper: "I somehow doubt you'll be assigned prime birthday hours."

Hermione, in a muttered return pout: "Remind me to steal Blaise's birthday when we get the chance."

Draco: "And suffer the point loss? A bold thought, darling, but we'll be abstaining for the entirety of that conception cycle, thanks."

From Daphne: "Can we get back to the subject of a name? You ought to give him Theodore, just to see what happens."

Harry, surprised: "You're not going to use it?"

Daphne: "In all likelihood not—"

Theo, shrugging: "For safety reasons."

Daphne: "—but admittedly, it's something of a morbid curiosity."

Pansy: "Understandable and rejected."

Blaise, to Pansy: "You're quite sure? Greengrass has a point. A third Theodore—"

Harry: "Three-odore."

Daphne: "Points, that has to be points. Pointmaster?"

Blaise: "…five points, and as I was saying it might turn out to be a fascinating incarnation."

Pansy: "It's pronounced 'mutation,' Blaise, and no."

From Jamie, admonishing them for their noise while staring at her very small brother: "SHHHHHHHHHHH."

Harry, reaching over to rifle a hand through her hair: "Do you have any suggestions for a name, James?"

Jamie, frowning: "Daddy."

Pansy, surprised: "You want to name him Henry, like Daddy?"

Jamie: "No, I want Daddy to name him."

Harry: "Well sweetheart, Daddy's letting Uncle Blaise name him."

Jamie: "Why?"

Harry: "Because Uncle Blaise is our wise and benevolent patriarch."

Theo, to Jamie: "He's all of our daddies, if you will."

Draco, cheerfully: "How stupendously upsetting."

Daphne: "It really is so much more troubling when we acknowledge it aloud."

Blaise, ignoring them: "Well, you're all in luck, as I do have a name in mind. It is, in fact…"

From everyone: anticipatory silence.

Blaise: "...Edward."

Hermione, surprised: "What, as in Edward IV?"

Blaise, scoffing: "The man betrayed by _both_ his brothers? Certainly not—"

Draco, chiming in: "Though he was over six feet tall in armor."

Blaise, nodding sagely: "Though he _was_ over six feet tall in armor."

Daphne, frowning: "Okay, so then why Edward? I mean don't get me wrong, it's certainly fashionable, but it's so very…"

Theo: "Normal?"

Pansy, pleased: "Classic."

Hermione: "British, but go on."

Blaise, indignantly: "Have you all forgotten? It's obviously in honor of the Bl-"

From Harry, Theo, and Draco, aghast: "THE BLACK PRINCE."

Blaise: "-ack— yes, exactly."

Hermione, with a bewildered glance at an equally bewildered Daphne: "Sorry, what?"

Draco, with a hasty attempt to silence her: "Sweetheart, I keep telling you the biannual watches aren't optional—"

Hermione, unthinking: "Oh god, is this about _A Knight's Tale_ again?"

Blaise: "Well, I think we can all agree that's a loss of twenty—"

Hermione, groaning against a sea of nods: "It's fine. I knew it was coming."

Blaise: "—and furthermore, it's a natural fit."

Daphne, amused: "Just to be clear, you're saying it's a natural fit to name Harry and Pansy's baby after one of your threesome porn characters?"

Jamie, perking up: "What's porn?"

Harry, smoothly: "A root vegetable. Like beets."

Jamie, making a face: "Yuck."

Harry, with a whisper to Daphne: "Saved you."

Daphne, wincingly: "Noted."

Blaise: "In any case, there we have it. To young Edward."

Draco, whispering to Pansy: "Do I get the middle name?"

Pansy, primly: "Will you remember what we discussed?"

Draco, solemnly: "I will."

Hermione, nosily: "What did you disc- _ouch_, Draco—"

Blaise, indignantly: "Excuse me, are you all defying the solemnity of my toast?"

His law-abiding subjects raised their invisible glasses to Harry and Pansy's son, baby Edward, and in the same moment, Jamie, who was apparently leaning into her mother's natural instinct for ceremony, leaned forward to give her brother a sweetly penitent kiss on the forehead.

"Portrait mode, Henry," Pansy hissed at Harry, who fumbled for his phone as Hermione stifled a laugh, leaning into Draco's chest while they smiled down at their newest member.

* * *

Despite his lofty hospital coronation, Edward had become Teddy within days of his birth. Pansy wasn't overly thrilled about the use of a diminutive, but it was undeniably adorable to watch an increasingly bearded Harry cooing the name to his son. (Even more definitively, Jamie had picked it up after the first time her father said it, so now there was about an equal chance of them calling him Edward as there was of them calling her Willow.)

As far as Hermione was concerned, Teddy couldn't have come along at a better time. He was a spot of positivity amid the fallout from the State visit, which had been… disastrous, to say the least. Bagman seemed to have spent part of his time there befriending Umbridge, who was transitioning back into political power, and in a distressing coincidence, the outburst against Scrimgeour seemed to be coming from all sides. Neither Labour nor Conservative were appeased by Scrimgeour's attempt at compromise; for some he was too lenient with his opposition, for others he was too supportive of bad policy, and everyone—including Draco and Hermione—considered him to be caving beneath the pressure. The likelihood his party would seek to replace him had grown nearly insurmountable within days of Bagman's departure.

Unfortunately, Scrimgeour wasn't the only one the media didn't care for.

"People don't particularly like you, do they?" Narcissa had commented to Hermione, glancing over a copy of the newspaper from her powder blue throne in the Clarence House study. Nearing the end of their summer residence in London to complete Lucius' transition away from public life, Percy had strategically coordinated a series of "candid" shots of Hermione and Draco driving to see Lucius and Narcissa on a fairly constant basis. (The intended message seemed to be the usual: Everything here is fine, kids!)

"Nope, they don't love me at the moment," Hermione agreed, no longer bothering to take Narcissa's bluntness personally. "They think I'm a hypocrite."

"Well, everyone is a fool," said Narcissa matter-of-factly, "which, I imagine, is why I never found it difficult to be beloved. Simply wave, smile. Wear pretty things," she suggested, then removed a ring from her finger, tossing it at Hermione. "Here. Take that."

"Holy shirts," Hermione said, nearly dropping the ring between the sofa cushions as she fumbled the catch. "What is this?"

"Oh, who knows, who cares," said Narcissa, waving a hand. "It belonged to me and now it's yours."

Hermione glanced down at the glittering aquamarine ring, astounded by the sheer size and weight of it. "Are you sure I can pull this off?"

"My dear, confidence is one of the tenets of a lady," Narcissa said listlessly. "Must I remind you once again that you're Princess of Wales? Anything you choose to wear, you are by definition pulling it off."

Hermione slid the ring tentatively onto her finger, her mouth going a little dry at how brightly her hand sparkled in the light.

"Don't be ashamed to fall in love with jewels," Narcissa advised, catching Hermione's moment of avarice. "I know you're a bit too intellectual for that, but the job is much easier if you simply embrace its rewards." She plucked her cup of tea from the table next to her, glaring down at it as if she wished it were spiked with something stronger. "You'll care much less what people think once you learn to accept that you're above them."

Hermione glanced up from the ring, surprised. "You don't actually believe that, do you?"

"Why should I not?" Narcissa practically tossed the cup back onto the saucer. "Abraxas is above me. My father was above me. My husband, too." A flick of her wrist cemented her point. "There are hierarchies to this life whether we acknowledge them or not. And the trouble with you," Narcissa added with a sniff, "is you're not above scrutiny. You were born a member of the general public and they resent you for it. They envy you rather than adore you."

"Well, I suppose your role in the public narrative was… different," Hermione acknowledged carefully. Narcissa was very unlike her—and unlike Bellatrix—in that she had been so young at the time of her courtship with Lucius that she had never appeared in the press until she was crowned Princess of Wales. She was the country's darling, a virginal beauty known only for flawless, iconic fashion and carefully staged philanthropy, until she eventually became sympathetic for being the woman Lucius had wronged.

Strange and circular to consider that because of Narcissa, Hermione had been picked over by media vultures throughout the eight years Draco had spent tirelessly ensuring she'd be more adequately prepared than his mother had been. Now, because of it, Hermione could never be made untouchable again.

"I certainly didn't have your hair," Narcissa said, appearing to end the conversation there until after a moment she continued, "But of course the public always loves a baby." She glanced at Hermione, picking up her tea again. "You might try that."

"Try… pregnancy?" Hermione echoed, a bit taken aback by the concept. "I don't really think that's a very good reason to have a baby, do you?"

"Good reason or not, it's effective," said Narcissa with a shrug. "You'll notice they've been kind to your friend Pansy since the birth of her son. Try to have a boy while you're putting in the effort," she added offhandedly, remarking grudgingly to herself, "Some things never change."

"I don't think anyone has any reason to go after Pansy either way," Hermione said, though she was genuinely curious to see if Narcissa would disagree.

"Impossible to tell," Narcissa replied, sounding as if it were quite possible indeed. "If the Dursleys get it in their heads to come for Harry, she'll be an easy target, won't she?"

Hermione didn't have to ask why. Pansy was a snob and had always been one; anyone who had ever met her would confirm that. The chance that she would welcome the Dursleys into her children's lives with open arms was so non-existent as to be entirely laughable.

"If anyone can withstand bad press, it's Pansy," Hermione said. She'd only met Lady Dahlia Parkinson a couple of times—Jamie's christening had been one of them—but she had immediately grasped the necessity for a hard exoskeleton like Pansy's personality. "By the way, how on earth is Pansy's mother your best friend?"

"Don't be ridiculous, I don't have any friends," said Narcissa dismissively, looking down at the tea in her hand like she longed to defenestrate them both from the open window.

For what it was worth, Hermione didn't actually need to be _above_ scrutiny. She'd already acknowledged a long time ago that Draco and his family lived under a microscope, so if people wanted to gossip about her likability or her marriage, that was their problem. She knew she was loved and she knew what was real, and nothing the Daily Prophet did or said would ever undermine that.

What Hermione did not care for was her inability to be scrutinized for things she had actually _said_—which was why she'd told Padma and Astoria one of the secrets she'd never intended to share with anyone until the backlash from Bagman's state dinner.

"_You're_ Penelope Clearwater?" Padma echoed, astonished. "Does Snape know?"

Hermione was willing to bet all the crown jewels that he did. "I assume so."

"Why bring it up now?" Astoria asked, and Hermione grimly pulled up an article on Padma's iPad before sliding it over for the other two women to see.

_THE GOLDEN GIRL: How Hermione Granger's rise to Princess of Wales Captivated One Nation and Sold Out Another. _

It was her entire history right there, definitive in linear sans serif font, and from first line to last, it pulled no punches. Beginning with _Understand one thing: Hermione Granger is not the girl next door_, the article described her upbringing, her education, her friends. _Prince boyfriend aside, Hermione Granger's closest school chums include a future Duke _(Theo) _and an Earl's daughter _(Pansy)_, with the only non-aristocrat of the bunch being the son of a celebrity widow whose net worth is estimated to match the gross domestic product of Montenegro _(Blaise, in something Hermione hoped was an exaggeration).

The thesis of the article was that Hermione's support of liberal policies was actually part of a PR facade constructed to make her an appealing "every girl." It suggested that Hermione's conspicuous lack of career, her highbrow education, and her posh friends concealed a deep-seated desire for wealth and power. Her "mask," according to the article, had now slipped, revealing the truth of her ambition after all. _As the discriminatory policies of the Bagman administration prevail, Hermione Granger proves herself to be a woman so enshrined in privilege she does not see—or does not care to see—the harm she causes by ennobling the rise of an aspiring despot._

"This is an American editorial," said Padma, not even looking at the article. No doubt she'd already read it; as far as Hermione could tell, Padma and Percy were in constant communication, and this was a Percy find. "They expect you to take a stand on American politics that is expressly forbidden by the role you currently hold. Culturally they do not understand that their expectations are now impossible for you to meet."

"I'm still an American by birth," Hermione pointed out. The media had come to the same conclusion she had about Bagman's intent to mimic the parts of British governance that were far more problematic when applied to its former colonies: its monarchy. She'd been distressed by her part in it ever since. "There has to be some way I can openly condemn Bagman's politics—"

"Openly? No," Padma said flatly. "But people aren't idiots. They can come to conclusions for themselves—"

"No they can't," Astoria cut in, being largely of the Princess Narcissa doctrine that people were actually quite stupid. "But still, that doesn't mean you're allowed to do something objectively _mad_," she told Hermione stiffly, "like revealing you're the corrupt ghostwriter everyone's finally forgotten about."

"Is that what brought this about? You must be joking," Padma said, rounding on Hermione at once. "You can't honestly have thought to reveal yourself as Clearwater, can you?" To Hermione's conspicuous silence, Padma shook her head in disapproval. "Hermione, I'm sorry, but I think you're allowing a bit of bad press to get the better of your judgment."

"But people seem to have forgiven Gilderoy Lockhart," Hermione protested. "And if the American press is going to write that I'm some sort of secret Republican just because my friends are rich and so is my hot husband, then what am I supposed to do?"

"First of all, Gilderoy Lockhart is a man," Astoria informed her irritably. "I've told you a million times, the rules are different for him and they always will be. Secondly—" She stopped. "Sorry, no, that's all I've got. He's just a man and that's it." She glanced at Padma for confirmation, and Padma, to Hermione's distress, didn't hesitate to nod.

"Ludo Bagman wasn't ruined by criminal allegations and likewise, Gilderoy Lockhart will not be ruined by allegations of falsehood," Padma said, as Astoria nodded her agreement. "The Lockhart memoir was never released and to this day, no one knows the extent of his wrongdoing. Even if they did, he successfully blamed the whole thing on Clearwater—on _you_," she added firmly. "So yes, Hermione, Gilderoy Lockhart will profit from his lies again. But that avenue, for you, is now and forever closed."

"Does anyone else know about it?" Astoria asked while Hermione swallowed the unsavory dose of reality Padma had just given her.

"No one aside from the usual suspects, no," she said, before suddenly remembering what had happened to her on the evening before her wedding. "Oh," she added, wincing. "And also Tracey Davis."

"Tracey Davis from Hogwarts?" asked Padma, frowning. "Well, I can't imagine that's a problem, is it?"

"Er, well… no?" Hermione said. "She did mention something once to Rita Skeeter—"

"So Rita Skeeter knows," said Padma, throwing her hands up. "Rita Skeeter knows and your own team doesn't?"

"Well, Rita's handled," Hermione assured them firmly. "And so is Lockhart—"

"My god," Astoria murmured, raising a hand to press the bridge of her aristocrat's nose between two fingers. "The loudest man in the whole of the British Commonwealth is involved and she thinks it's a well-contained secret?"

"I'll need a pay raise for this," Padma muttered in conspiratorial agreement.

"Excuse me, I'm right here," Hermione reminded them irritably, "and the point is Tracey's damage has been done. I think," she added, because while she couldn't be sure, she hadn't heard a peep from Tracey since. As far as she was concerned, all signs pointed to a single moment of anger versus any sort of lingering desire for revenge. "And anyway, that's all my secrets and they're not even very good, so—"

"They're not great," grumbled Padma, "though I think you're right about Tracey. And as for Rita Skeeter—"

"We have a deal," Hermione said quickly. "She doesn't say anything about what happened the night Narcissa and I kidnapped her—"

"I'm sorry, _what_?" barked Padma.

"—and we don't say anything about treason," Hermione concluded. "So all in all it's very beneficial to everyone involved."

"Well, obviously I'm going to have to run a lot of this by Snape," Padma said impatiently, rising abruptly to her feet. "I've arranged for you to speak at a new women's hospital opening next week—"

"Oh, great," said Hermione sincerely.

"—and other than that, I just…" Padma sighed, one hand flying up to her temples. "I'm going to have to think about all this."

It struck Hermione that this was probably her one chance to discuss anything on the subject before they put it away for the rest of time.

"Listen," she began, "I think I know the answer to this—"

"You do," Astoria said. "It's no."

"Well… look," Hermione continued, frustrated. "What if I could just reveal some of the other work I did? Articles I wrote, or blog posts, or—?"

"You're going about this all wrong," Padma told her firmly. "It's not your job to prove who you were. That is over. Your past is gone. You may feel called to defend your country of origin, Hermione, but the path you chose has limits. Whatever Bagman does next, whatever fallout there may be from your appearance, that is no longer your burden to carry. You cannot control the world aside from what is within your capacity to do."

Hermione thought for the first time of Abraxas saying the role was wasted on her. His pseudo-prophetic commentary that her brilliance would in some ways be her doom struck her with a new conceptual clarity.

"Fine," she said, resigning herself to her limitations once again. At least Padma was tireless on her behalf when it came to the hunt for meaningful causes; _someone_ was fighting for her voice to be heard, so things could have been (and definitely had been) worse. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking clearly."

Padma gave her a surprisingly sympathetic glance.

"You don't have to apologize to me, and that's entirely the point," she said. "You're the Princess of Wales. You apologize to no one."

So the summer concluded to something of a mixed review.

Among the unexpected positives as the season came to a close, however, was an increase in time spent with Daphne, who had recently hired more staff to her design and production teams. She'd become a mogul practically overnight, and one of the formal appearances Hermione was delighted to add to her diary was the British Fashion Awards, wherein she was given the opportunity to present her best friend with the award for Womanswear Designer of the Year. Daphne wasn't supposed to know in advance, of course, but with the arrangements necessary to provide Hermione's security, it was a fairly straightforward leap to the obvious conclusion.

"I can't believe it," Daphne said, collapsing with Hermione on the floor of her living room. "Who would have guessed we'd both be married and grand successes in our fields by now?"

"I wouldn't go that far. I'm the only princess we've got and I'm still not even the best one," Hermione reminded Daphne drily, thinking of how Pansy was the media darling once again in the aftermath of Teddy's christening. (She had worn another magnificent coat dress, looking far more queenly than Hermione could ever manage without an arsenal of haute couture.)

Daphne giggled, rolling onto her side to nudge Hermione with the fuzzy-socked foot of a woman collecting accolades in high fashion. "You know what I mean."

"I do, I really do." Hermione turned to face her, feeling like no time had passed since they'd celebrated something as distant as final exams coming to an end. "I'm glad some things stay the same, though."

"Me too." Daphne smiled the flushed smile of a woman at the height of her buzz. "I wish I could say Astoria was doing well, but she really isn't, is she?"

Hermione grimaced, having failed to sort out much beyond the obvious. "I'm not sure married life is agreeing with her."

"The marriage, or the life?"

"I honestly couldn't say," Hermione said. The few times she had seen Astoria and Alex together had seemed relatively normal from her limited perspective, but she was starting to learn there were depths to Astoria's outward presentation. "Has she said anything new to you?"

"Oh, you know my sister. Locked up tight," Daphne said, turning an invisible key against her lips. "Like a vault."

In terms of their other friends, Teddy's birth had rendered Pansy a bit less available than usual. Still, she was a reliable source of counsel, particularly while Hermione struggled with antipathy from the press.

"The issue isn't about tossing some objective truth into the void, it's about permitting you space for honesty," Pansy said, looking outrageously spotless for someone who was breastfeeding an infant born less than three weeks earlier. "Luckily for you, the one person who's mad enough to be that kind of honest happens to be in the kitchen with Henry."

Teddy's godmother, the acclaimed and still-controversial journalist Luna Lovegood, sat on the kitchen counter with Jamie as Harry went about fixing some sort of afternoon snack. At the moment Hermione walked in, Jamie was asking Luna about something called a "gulping plimpy," which in true Luna fashion had an equal likelihood of being something invented to amuse a toddler as it was something she genuinely believed was real.

Harry, catching Hermione's entry to the kitchen, winked at her while Luna spoke, obviously in the midst of ongoing entertainment. He more than anyone was always delighted by whatever new dose of nonsense Luna offered, merely flipping the thing he was concocting—a cinnamon roll he was turning into French toast, by the looks of it—in the pan and whistling to himself without comment as Luna went into great detail about a fish with rubbery legs.

Luna paused once Jamie spotted Hermione, her bright gaze lighting up. "I don't want to interrupt," Hermione assured them quickly, allowing Jamie to pull her face down for a cinnamon-sugar kiss beside her eye. "Though I did wonder if we could chat a bit, Luna. Later, of course," she added, tapping Jamie's nose, "since I think it would bore Miss Jamie."

"Nobody's ever too young to help solve a problem," said Luna, blinking owlishly at Hermione. "Is it an earthly matter?"

"Well, it's a bit cerebral but yes, largely I would consider it of the earth," replied Hermione, observing with a stifled laugh that Jamie was now mimicking Pansy's expression of serious contemplation: ankles crossed, chin down, green eyes up in a portrait of intensive curiosity.

"Can't be about Handsome Tom, then," said Luna, relieved. "He seems to have focused his energy on astral planes of late."

"Well, that's… good to hear," said Hermione. "But I had more of a journalistic concern."

"Oh?" asked Luna, tilting her head. Beside her, Jamie did the same.

"Hermione wants to know how she can point out to people that they're wrong and she's right," Harry supplied before Hermione could open her mouth. He slid her a sidelong glance and a grin, popping a bit of cinnamon roll into his mouth. "She hasn't learned yet that nobody likes to be proven wrong," he added to Jamie, tapping her knee with a spatula.

"But she's old," said Jamie, which unfortunately did sting a bit, since at twenty-nine Hermione considered herself teetering at the precipice of being quite old indeed. If pop culture had convinced her to be illogically fearful of anything, it was that a woman's thirties were her own personal absconsion into obscurity.

"Yes, she's positively ancient," said Harry, a young, young, youngyoungyoungyoung man of twenty-eight, "but everyone's always learning, James."

"The monarchy is deeply ritualistic," contributed Luna unexpectedly. "The shroud of mystery is what keeps it successfully entombed. If anyone were to open the crypt, the dead would surely rise."

"Ew," whispered Jamie, entranced.

"So you're an oracle now?" sighed Hermione, turning to Luna.

"No, just metaphorizing," said Luna. "You seem to like those."

"I… fine," said Hermione. "Go on. You were saying about keeping the dead in their crypts?"

"Oh, the tomb is open," said Luna flatly. "The royal family is now asked to coexist with the world as if they are normal, when in fact they are not."

"Is Daddy a vampire?" Jamie asked Luna.

"No, but Uncle Draco is," said Harry, which Hermione chose to ignore for the time being.

"The issue is how long you can preserve a corpse," said Luna.

"Which is?" asked Hermione.

"Well, it depends on the mummification process," Luna replied. "I'm afraid no matter how good the pickling liquid, Handsome Tom assures me the hair and skin go first."

"Sorry, is this still part of the metaphor?" Hermione asked, watching Jamie's eyes blow wide once again. She seemed to be in the stage of development where children had an inexplicable fascination with gore.

"Hm? No, it's simply practical advice," Luna said. "Cartilage, too. Watch out for noses."

"Oh, cool," sighed Hermione, and Harry laughed, giving her shoulder a nudge as he transferred his cinnamon roll concoction to a plate.

"I think what Luna's trying to say is you're fighting a losing battle," he told her, sprinkling a bit of brown sugar on top. "The royal family is by definition archaic. It's a vestige of our past, and we cling to it out of patriotism more than anything." He slid a hand out to his daughter, plucking her from the counter with one arm as he balanced the cinnamon toast concoction in his free hand. "As much as you want to bring it to life again, it's counterintuitive. It wasn't meant to still be alive, which means you can't resuscitate it into something new. You can only preserve the good it still provides—and don't tell Uncle Draco," he added, exchanging a conspiratorial glance with Jamie, "but I do think there's still good to be done."

"Is that what we were talking about?" asked Luna, sliding bonelessly down from the counter with a puzzled look on her face. "I thought perhaps you'd simply picked up a fondness for the macabre," she remarked, following them back to the living room where Pansy was, "which truthfully I wouldn't recommend. One can never be too careful with runes."

"Don't worry, I haven't opened any sarcophagi or anything," Hermione assured her, half-joking, but Luna instantly became very grave.

"I told Handsome Tom to put it back," she said, though by then they had entered the room and Pansy had risen to her feet, trading Harry the plate of cinnamon toast for a bundle of snoozing baby.

So there had been ups and downs, yes, but now there was Teddy, a squishy new delight, and Harry was happily dismissing reports on his estranged uncle and ignoring phone calls from his godfather's lawyer in favor of cradling one small child to his chest while twirling the other around his finger, feeding his wife sweets.

Not for the first time, Hermione counted herself lucky to be able to know for sure that there were no alternate projections of their lives in which she could have ever made Harry as happy as Pansy and his children. He was a man who had spent his entire life longing for home and family, and it was enough for Hermione to take home a tiny fraction of his joy, filling her chest with his contentment as if she, too, had won some of it for herself.

* * *

Fall brought with it a bluster of activity ranging from the usual and pleasant—Abraxas' annual gala, for which Astoria had selected a beautiful teal gown that renewed a bit of Hermione's waning popularity—to the usual and still unfortunate. Hermione had taken the advice of her team and abstained from doing anything about her public image aside from business as usual, but that didn't mean she wasn't indiscreetly preoccupied by the elections in which she had not been able to cast a vote.

"Well?" Draco asked, slipping into bed beside her. "Any results yet?"

"Too early to call," Hermione sighed, staring at her phone screen and refreshing the page once again. "The time difference is a real bummer."

"You could always not sleep," he suggested. "What's tomorrow's business, finger-painting with children? Surely you can have a nap then."

"True," she agreed, brightening before realizing he was joking. "Oh."

Draco gave her an admonishing look of suppressed amusement and eased the phone in her hand towards him, glancing at the screen. "At least it looks like the House may flip, doesn't it?"

"Looks that way, but the Senate…" Hermione grimaced as he slid the phone out of her reach, pointedly setting it beside him on the nightstand. "I just can't help feeling I should have done more," she sighed, choosing to conveniently forget that she would have voted in a predominantly liberal district regardless.

"Difficult as it may be to accept, even you can't control the outcome of this election," Draco reminded her. "In that you and I are equally limited."

She sobered at once, recalling that Draco had taken a long meeting with his grandfather that afternoon to discuss the danger Umbridge was posing by undermining the current Prime Minister. (Umbridge's I'm-just-so-worried-about-the-children rhetoric managed to resonate with both paranoid mothers and outraged isolationists.) In Draco's view, Scrimgeour's tepid handling of an already divisive policy choice was so unpopular that he was practically walking himself out the door. Without a better alternative to unify the more moderate thinkers, Draco argued, the extremists were likely to win.

In response, Abraxas had said what he always said: Whatever the outcome, it wasn't theirs to decide.

"You don't think Umbridge is going to replace Scrimgeour, do you?" Hermione asked him, settling against the pillows once it became clear Draco was not going to return her phone. (She could always steal it back once he'd gone to sleep, or steal his.)

"I'm afraid it would be a mistake to underestimate her," Draco replied, carefully choosing his words as he always did. "She is… formidable. Formidably persuasive with a certain demographic, at least, and the Dursleys aren't helping."

"The Dursleys?" Hermione echoed, and Draco nodded.

"The son, Dudley, has grown in popularity recently," he said. "Several of his recent videos have gone viral. I believe he's even been offered a more formal role as a television presenter."

Hermione blinked. "You're joking."

"I'm not. He's quite popular with a certain demographic of men who feel modernity doesn't suit them." Draco turned to her with a wan smile. "That Umbridge herself is a woman doesn't seem to have persuaded him away from her cause."

Hermione twisted to face him with a sigh, their knees touching beneath the sheets.

"What do you think is worse," she murmured, "corrupt kings or entire corrupt systems?"

"They're the same in the end, I think," he said, "which means we've not quite got it right yet."

"We as in the British?"

"We as in humanity," he said grimly. "Your government was supposed to be infallible, was it not? All those checks and balances, your brilliantly codified laws—"

"Alright, alright." She rolled her eyes. "I get it, it's the Titanic of constitutions. Unsinkable until it's not."

"Whereas here we have tradition," he reminded her. "Centuries of it. It's not meant to collapse on itself because it stands, unassailable, on itself."

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself that things would right themselves eventually, even if he did not personally step in to right them. She reached out, touching his cheek in something she hoped would be mildly reassuring. In so many ways he was still the student she'd first met; struggling to understand the world around him, desperate to make sense of it while learning each day where his limitations were.

"You don't have a choice," she said, and it wasn't meant to be cruel, though possibly the reminder would cause him to suffer regardless. "Your power, your influence, it has to have limits. It wouldn't be democracy otherwise."

"So what am I, then?" he asked her. "I can't participate in my own government. My grandfather supposedly answers only to the divine, and yet his job is to stand back and condemn this country to whatever fate Parliament rules for it."

Hermione didn't remind him that systemic details aside, his country had ruled for itself. He knew it, and was clearly struggling with it as much as she was when it came to her own country. It seemed more than ever that some bridges couldn't be mended; that the factions of power splintering each day from partisan interests might never again see eye to eye.

"You're their tradition," she assured him. "You're their future. You're England." She reached out, brushing the pale strands from his forehead. "They love you."

His eyes fluttered open, grey gaze fixing on hers.

"I think for the first time in my life I would risk not being loved if it meant doing something I thought was right," he said quietly.

There was nothing to say to that, so she pulled him closer, securing herself at his side.

"Well I love you, in any case," she reminded him, exhaling it for the paltry bit of repetition that it was. However genuine, however true, it did little to solve the problem.

"Yes, and it's your fault I've turned out so entitled," he sighed, muttering it into her hair. "I've somehow got it into my head that if you can love me knowing everything I am, then I ought to be able to do as I like."

She chuckled at that, kissing his forehead.

"We're the products of a very strange time," she said. "And it isn't even ours to inherit yet."

"What, time? Once it's ours to control we'll already be products of another," Draco commented resentfully. "By then Jamie will be telling us how much we've got wrong and how little we understand."

Hermione felt it somewhat conspicuous that he hadn't mentioned the possibility of his own son or grandson and felt, not for the first time, a little fissure of guilt that he seemed to be refraining from any mention of it for her benefit. She knew he had no choice but to consider his responsibility to produce an heir at all times, just as Lucius had done and Abraxas before him. He was trying to create a normal life for her, to give her space to come to the decision herself, but everyone else was right: they weren't normal. To pretend to be otherwise was to blind herself with the exact privilege she'd been accused of by the American press.

"Hey," she said, maneuvering from where they'd been tangled in the sheets so she could look at him. "We're never going to figure it out and we'll be confused for the rest of our lives."

"Is that the good news?" he asked, peering up at her with a frown.

"No." She kissed him lightly, cheerfully, like he was her joy in life, and he was. "The good news is we'll do it together."

That, at least, made him smile, one arm slipping backwards as he twisted to reach for his nightstand. "Here," he said, tossing her the phone and turning off his light. "Stay up as long as you'd like, but I'm going to sleep. There's only so much pondering a man can do about his mortality in one day," he grumbled to himself.

"Mmhmm," she said distractedly, already opening the screen and refreshing the page.

Draco laughed, propping himself up to kiss her goodnight. "Love you."

"Love you," she replied, comforted by the ritual of reminding him before hastily checking the election results for the Senate.

* * *

The arrival of winter brought Abraxas' usual celebration of Christmas at Sandringham, for which Hermione's presence was, for the first time, expected. If there was one novelty that hadn't yet worn off, it was the knowledge that for the most part, where Draco went, she went. Snape, of course, took that opportunity to drone about their joint appearance on the way to St Mary Magdalene, adding somewhat bizarrely that if Hermione was approached over the holiday by someone claiming to represent or have knowledge about the family, she should report it to him immediately.

"Why on earth would someone like that approach me?" she asked him, more irritated than puzzled.

"The 'why' of the matter is not important," Snape informed her. "I'm merely asking that you forward any such communication to me."

"All my communication goes through Padma or Percy," Hermione reminded him. "I'm not exactly listed in the yellow pages."

Snape paused for a moment, appearing to collect his patience in order to not lose his temper.

"May I trust that I am understood?" he asked eventually, and because it would end the conversation quicker, Hermione nodded.

"Understood," she assured him, feeling again the sensation of incredible dislike that propelled her dismissively away from him.

Hermione's parents had opted to spend the holidays in Australia, intending to visit London in the new year once they'd made their way to the European continent. The offices at Kensington Palace were going to be closed while Hermione and Draco were away, which meant that while the Notts and Potters would be joining them as guests of Abraxas, their courtiers and staff were being set loose into the world to briefly rejoin society.

Percy in particular seemed unenthused about the prospect.

"Oh, don't be so gloomy, Weasley," laughed Padma, giving him a nudge. She, Hermione observed, had become quite close to Percy over the five months they'd all been working together, to the point where they were rarely seen without each other in the royal offices. "It can't be so bad to have to spend time with your family."

"I'm just very busy here," Percy insisted. "I have a great deal of work to do."

"Oh yes, be sure to tell your family you're incredibly busy and important," Padma said wryly. "They'll love that."

"I don't think they will," said Percy, remaining about as permeable to humor as ever. "But in any case, I've nearly finished with the Penelope Clearwater business."

"The what?" Hermione echoed, startled.

"This," Percy said, handing Hermione his iPad in explanation. To her surprise, a Google search of the name Penelope Clearwater turned up a full page of personal items: a Facebook page, a private Instagram, even a LinkedIn page. The search results were still populated with a few news articles naming her as Lockhart's blacklisted ghostwriter, but to Hermione's amazement, the search had produced a face and backstory that were clearly not Hermione's.

"Penelope Clearwater," Percy explained. "In the event anyone ever decides to dig her up."

"But…" Hermione stared at the screen, unsure how to put into words her temporary disorientation at being tricked into believing Penelope Clearwater was real. "Who is this woman in all the pictures?"

"Better that you not know," Percy said, nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

_CGI,_ mouthed Padma, which Hermione wasn't entirely sure was a joke.

"But… why?"

"Well, the most interesting thing about her was her lack of presence, Ma'am," Percy replied without looking up, removing the iPad from Hermione's hands and pulling up a window with his to-do list, which appeared from a distant glance to be several pages long. "Now she exists and has an easily explained connection to this office," he assured her, "should any conflicts arise in the future."

"Wait, what?" Hermione said, glancing at Padma for explanation, but Padma merely shrugged, obviously finding the whole thing extremely entertaining. "How is she connected here?"

"She's my ex-girlfriend," said Percy, again not looking up, and before Hermione could say anything reasonable, something else had slid from her mouth.

"Girlfriend?" she asked without thinking.

That finally prompted Percy's attention as he looked up with a frown.

"I suppose we could make Penelope non-binary if you prefer it," he said.

"Oh, um, that's… no, never mind, she/her pronouns will suffice," said Hermione hastily, fighting to ignore the way Astoria shook with silent laughter beside her.

"Personally I think Blaise is right about him," Astoria told Hermione once they were alone, now openly amused at her expense. "Actually, I think possibly he and Padma have something going on. Casual, by the looks of it."

"Do they?" Hermione asked, mildly disappointed. She wasn't sure who Neville was currently dating, but Blaise had offhandedly mentioned the existence of someone several times. Not that Hermione had any natural skill for matchmaking, but she'd hoped Blaise wouldn't have to be alone in the interim of whatever punishment he'd levied on himself this time.

"I doubt it'll last," Astoria assured her with a shrug. "If it's even happening at all, that is. Regardless, I certainly don't see them together long-term."

"Oh?" asked Hermione, surprised to hear that Astoria had an opinion about it either way. Not that she wanted to be seen encouraging any gossip among her staff, but… in terms of employer-employee relationships, Astoria had always been a special case. "Why not?"

"I just don't see it," Astoria said dismissively. Somewhat briskly, in Hermione's opinion. "Anyway, is there anything else you need before you go?"

"I think I can manage," Hermione assured her. "Have fun with Alex."

She tried not to notice the difficulty with which Astoria conjured a smile. "Have fun with my sister," she replied, curtsying and excusing herself from the office as Hermione wondered once again whether there would ever be an appropriate time to intervene.

Shamefully or not, Astoria's problems were easy to forget once Hermione arrived at Sandringham, where Lucius and Narcissa had arrived before them for the first time, as per the shift in succession. Both were sitting in one of the prominent gathering rooms, hands chastely held as Lucius' thumb stroked Narcissa's knuckles.

"I take it you're both well," Lucius said, looking first to Draco as they entered the room.

"Oh, manageably," said Draco, cleverly concealing that the shower he'd taken prior to dinner had involved more than a small amount of misbehavior from his deviant wife. He sat across from his mother, smiling at her. "You look wonderful, Mother."

"Yes, I'm decaying with such grace," replied Narcissa, though it was obvious to Hermione that she appreciated the validation from her son. "And you seem to have pulled something workable together too, I see," she added to Hermione, who was wearing a thick knitted sweater Astoria had approved. (Everything in her suitcase was Astoria approved—something about a 'capsule wardrobe' and 'very Parisian,' none of which made any sense to Hermione. Astoria had also stocked it with diagrams about how to wear each clothing item; the hem of the sweater was loosely tucked into the waistband of Hermione's jeans, as instructed.)

"Well, I've done my best," Hermione replied, taking the seat beside Draco. Before she could make herself comfortable, though, Narcissa had already risen to her feet and motioned to her son.

"Come with me, darling," she said, beckoning out of the room. "I'd give an excuse but I haven't got one."

"As you wish, Lady Mother," Draco acknowledged cheerfully, turning to meet Hermione's startled blink with a wicked grin. "Have fun," he whispered, kissing her cheek and rising to follow his mother into the next room, leaving Hermione alone with Prince Lucius (the man).

"I'll keep the punishment brief," Lucius assured her, shaking his head at what must have been her horrified expression. Hermione hastily collected herself in Draco's absence, clearing her throat.

"I wasn-"

"You do know I'm aware that my only son has referred to me privately as various forms of Satan since he was eleven years old," Lucius assured her. "I no longer take it personally."

"I would never… _Satan_, you said? That's… no," Hermione said. "What?"

The Prince of Darkness arched a doubtful brow.

"Anyway, what's up?" said Hermione, wincing the moment she said it. Thankfully Lucius offered her a roll of his eyes and leaned back against the sofa cushion, opting to get on with the rest of the conversation.

"Unlike my wife, I've not had many opportunities to speak with you since the wedding," Lucius remarked. "You're a young woman tasked with a great deal of expectation. Is it so difficult to believe I might want to see for myself how you've managed so far?"

"Oh." Hermione relaxed a little, relieved. "I thought you might want to tell me to have a baby or to sit up straighter or something," she said, and watched a little flicker of discomfort pass over Lucius' expression. "Oh," she said again, sighing this time. "So that's exactly what you wanted to tell me, okay."

He gave her something of a tight smile. "For what it's worth, I'm happy to keep it brief. You know what's expected of you," he reminded her. "This country is always happy to have an heir. Securing yourself as the mother of a future king will ensure that you are, to some degree, untouchable."

There it was again: untouchable. A state the rest of them seemed desperate to return to, which Hermione doubted she would ever reach.

"I understand," she said.

Lucius' smile faded slightly. It didn't become unkind, but it was… thoughtful.

"I was also not ready to be a father when Draco was born," he said. "I have been a very poor father indeed. In many ways I'm not cut out for it."

"That's not tr-"

"It is true," Lucius said dismissively, still a prince who could wave away any opinion for which he had no patience. "It is one of many things for which you may be called before you're ready. Or perhaps no one is ever truly ready." He shrugged. "But what Draco will not tell you, and what you absolutely must hear from someone, even if it has to be from a villain like myself, is that it makes no difference. Ready or not, it must be done."

Hermione nodded in silence.

"Well." Lucius rose to his feet, offering her his arm. "Shall we join Narcissa and Draco? I can see I've successfully dampened the mood, as I am so devilishly wont to do."

She blinked, standing to join him. "Oh no, it's not—"

"You seem very fond of lying to appease me," Lucius observed. "Eventually you'll realize you're a princess who no longer has to appease anyone."

"Aside from an entire kingdom?" she asked, grudgingly taking his arm.

"Aside from that," Lucius agreed, patting her hand and leading her into the next room where Narcissa was crying with laughter, one hand clutching the knee of the beloved son that she, too, must have once been pressured to have.

* * *

Hermione and Draco joined Abraxas, Lucius, and Narcissa for dinner, though unfortunately it was hardly an intimate family affair. Among the many guests were a variety of extended family members, including two that Hermione had already seen enough of to last an immortal lifetime.

"I'll never understand why we attend these things," said Hortense, who had apparently finished with the scavenger hunt "Peeves" had prepared to keep them at Kensington Palace as long as possible. "Not once has anyone gone forward with an arrest."

"I know I'll regret asking this," Hermione sighed, "but is there a reason you suspect someone will be arrested every Christmas?"

"Certainly. We're responsible for any amount of wrongdoing, real or imagined," said Thibaut grandly. "Were this any reasonable court, we'd be under lock and key."

"That's a surprisingly valid point," Hermione said.

"Lucy looks wretched," Hortense commented salaciously, peering at their cousin. "His personal demons seem to have scattered beyond recognition."

"Yes, happiness does seem to have ruined him," Hermione agreed, beginning to look around for Draco. She'd slipped away for a drink when Abraxas approached, intent on avoiding any meaningful conversation with him. Having already been addressed by each of the others about her womb-related responsibilities, she doubted she could stand to hear it again from the family patriarch.

"I hoped things would be more interesting given your marriage," Thibaut said, momentarily distracting Hermione from her impending escape. "Possibly that we'd be solving your murder by now."

"Excuse me?" asked Hermione, balking.

"Well, you know what they say about the Potters," offered Hortense reassuringly. "It's really nothing personal, dear. Just a trend we're charting."

"I didn't think it w- Wait a minute, _what_?" demanded Hermione.

"It's no surprise, really," sighed Thibaut. "One was politically unruly, the other was egregiously red-headed—"

"Not to mention she came from a family of horrendous little snitches," Hortense added, at which point Hermione realized with a mix of curiosity and relief that they were not speaking about Harry and Pansy, but in fact Harry's parents, James and Lily.

"It's no wonder Narcissa's cousin kept that lover of his a secret," Thibaut said. "What was his name? The lawyer?"

"Lawyer?" Hermione echoed, startled.

"You'd be amazed what sort of swampery can get dredged up in the span of about two years," said Hortense, glancing at Thibaut. "Was it even that?"

"Human years? Yes I believe so," he said, bewilderingly.

"Why do you guys know so much weird stuff about everyone?" Hermione asked, exasperated. On the one hand, she wanted to know everything. On the other, she was absolutely convinced the 'everything' in question was a total fabrication. "Never mind, don't answer that. There's no reason I'd be murdered, end of story."

"True, Narcissa was always the prime candidate for murder," Hortense said, acting as if Hermione had made a salient point. (She had, but it hadn't been that one.) "House arrest was such a disappointing outcome by comparison."

"You can't actually believe Abraxas would have _killed_ Narcissa," scoffed Hermione, to which Hortense and Thibaut exchanged a rather loaded glance. "Wait, you don't actually believe that, do you? I thought you found him, you know… too dull for something as diverting as murder," she said, hoping retroactively that nobody would overhear her giving the subject Hortense and Thibaut's signature glibness. Briefly, she pictured the headline: _HERMIONE GRANGER CONFESSES THIRST FOR HOMICIDE!_

"You think monarchs aren't capable of murder?" scoffed Thibaut. "How utterly childish."

"The monarchy _is_ death, little girl," added Hortense. "Natural or unnatural, kings can only follow the dead. They're a bit like uninteresting ghosts that way."

"That's… oddly true, I guess," Hermione said uncomfortably. "But still, with all the scrutiny? All this press? I really don't think they'd get away with anything even close."

"Nonsense. You've seen the greasy one, haven't you?" Hortense said.

"It's why his hair's so greasy," Thibaut said. "It's full of murder."

"And anyway," Hortense continued, carrying on with whatever point they were making before Hermione could even register they _might_ have been talking about Snape, "whatever Narcissa did with our abduction kit was handled rather quietly, was it not?"

"I—" Hermione stopped, blinking away both the implication of Rita Skeeter and the brief, uninvited reminder that Percy had fabricated an entire human being just to make sure the world never discovered the work she had once produced on her own.

"Still," Hermione insisted, shaking it away. She was always having to reset her capacity for resisting nonsensical paranoia from the two least rational people she'd ever met. "That's not the same thing. And Narcissa and Bellatrix are proof, aren't they?" she prompted, reminded that the royal family had already gone through plenty of skeletons worth covering up at any cost. "No matter how controversial the Potters may have been, nobody would have killed them just to prevent a scandal."

"Depends on the scandal," said Thibaut, before adding tangentially, "Do you suppose that cranberry sauce is tinned?"

"If it isn't they're monsters," Hortense offered in disgust. "Nobody likes a fresh cranberry."

"Too true," said Thibaut, the two of them abruptly continuing on as Hermione tried to remember what she'd been thinking about before they came along.

Incidentally, she caught the eye of one of Abraxas' extended family members (she hadn't quite memorized all their names and titles). The duke or earl or whoever he was let a glance drift to Hermione's glass of red wine before carefully averting away.

Oh yeah, Hermione thought with an inward sigh. Babies.

* * *

The arrival of Blaise, Daphne and Theo, and Harry and Pansy meant a bustle of noise, children, and one shivering Tartan-clad dog, which normally would have been an easy distraction. Unfortunately the weather was gloomy and the mood was slightly off, leaving Hermione with a bit of melancholy.

"You're quiet, Cali," said Theo, seeking her out the day following their arrival. Privately, she was relieved it was him. As much as she loved Daphne and the others, Theo's presence was oddly meditative; soothing, almost, and never overpowering the way the others sometimes were.

It had always been very clear to her why Theo was Draco's lifelong confidant, and sometimes she enjoyed the opportunity to borrow him for herself.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, turning to him.

"Yes, Minerva misses you," he replied, falling into the seat beside her on the sofa where she was curled up in front of the fire. "No, Oliver hasn't noticed you're gone."

"Very funny," she said, and he smiled.

"For what it's worth, they do ask about you all the time," he said, "though I know that's not what you're concerned about." He settled himself beside her, slumping down to rest his head against the back of the sofa. "Hit me," he offered once he was comfortable, turning to look at her.

"Does it bother you that Daphne doesn't want children?" Hermione said, and he blinked.

"Wasn't quite expecting to be hit with _that_," he said, and she grimaced.

"Sorry," she said, making a face. "I could've softened it."

"Could've," he said with a chuckle.

She pantomimed the knock on the door that was Draco and Theo's code for personal conversations and he sighed heavily, closing his eyes.

"I'd prefer if you waited outside," he admitted, "though I suppose it's too late for that, isn't it?"

She nudged him with her foot. "Is it really so messy in there?"

"Messy? No." He tapped his fingers lightly in his lap. "But I have done some rearranging."

She waited for him to go on, and gradually, after some thought, his eyes opened.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you my own childhood was somewhat wanting," he said, sparing her a thin smile. "Perhaps because I have no understanding of what a childhood should look like, I've always thought Greengrass would be a wonderful thing to give someone. A mother, someone warm and kind like I never had." He turned to look at her. "I will admit it has taken me some time to fully understand that her love is not mine to give away."

Hermione nodded, waiting.

"Now, I think, I can see that the fantasy I had of Daphne as a mother is ill-suited to the woman she actually is. I see Pansy with her children and I understand that for Daphne, that love is for her work. Better still, it's for me. She's devoted and incapable of giving in small doses, and to ask her to divide herself, to sacrifice her dreams for my conception of normality, is…"

He paused.

"I've had to reconfigure my image of what life should be," he concluded, "but it doesn't sadden me like I thought it would. Growing old with her is already more than enough—it's more love than I ever thought I would have in my life. To help her shine, to be her partner in everything she does, that is a privilege beyond any imaginable alternative."

He smiled suddenly, turning his light toward Hermione. "So is all this distress over your concern that I might not procreate?"

Hermione's laugh in response was wholly unexpected, even to her. "I do wonder what you'll do with all those houses."

"Scatter them among Draco's enemies, I expect," Theo said.

He shifted, opening an arm for her to lean on his shoulder.

"Worried about your progeny?" he said, setting his cheek against the top of her head.

"Something like that," she sighed. "Trying to sort out the good reasons from the bad."

He nodded. "For the record," he murmured to her hair, "I will gladly name you and Draco as my heirs, assuming you outlive my dog. I know how important my worldly possessions are to you."

"Oh good, so you'll saddle us with your estate taxes?"

"Gladly," he assured her, and she laughed.

"Sweet of you."

"I know," he said, kissing her head as Draco entered the room.

"What's this?" he asked, pausing in feigned horror. "My wife, Theodore? You heartless strumpet."

"Nonsense," Theo said, "I only have eyes for you, sweet prince."

"Please don't," said Daphne, materializing behind Draco. "One of these days I'll stop believing you're joking about that."

The two of them joined Hermione and Theo on the sofa, tangling themselves up just as Blaise wandered in.

"Oh, is this where everyone is? Excellent," he said, reclining across Theo's lap like an indulgent house cat. "We've done so little canoodling of late."

"Oh god, _Blaise_—"

Hermione wriggled her way out from what was becoming a pile of limbs and wound up on the floor, rolling her eyes as Draco gleefully took her spot.

"Hermione," murmured Harry, materializing from nothing and tapping the top of her head from wherever he'd snuck into the room. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Hm?" asked Hermione, glancing up to find him with his phone in one hand. "Yeah, sure," she said, frowning a little as he retreated from the room without waiting for her to follow. She leapt to her feet and motioned to Draco that she'd be back in a second, hurrying into the corridor and colliding with Harry where waited for her outside.

"What's going on?"

"So, I finally decided to answer the phone when Remus rang—that's my godfather's lawyer," he clarified for her, and Hermione nodded, unsure where he was going with the conversation and intent to forget any mention of him from Hortense and Thibaut. "It's a long story," Harry said with a shrug, "but essentially he claims that Snape forced him to leave England after Sirius died."

"Oh." Hermione frowned. "Wait, why Snape?" she asked with a delayed sense of discomfort, because as far as she knew, Snape would have been working for Lucius at the time. She knew he'd had a personal interest in Harry's mother once, so either he'd acted alone, which was weird, or he'd acted as an arm of the royal family, which was… weirder.

"I don't know," Harry said, chewing the cuticle of his thumb in thought. "It was…" He paused. "Remus was fairly emotional over the phone," he said ambiguously.

"Is that… good?" Hermione asked, unsure why she'd been the one summoned for this. She had the impression this was Draco's arena, or someone else who had known whoever Remus Lupin was.

Harry fidgeted again, rubbing the lids of his eyes beneath his glasses. "Well, it's possible he needs something from me. Maybe he ran out of money or something."

One glance at Harry suggested otherwise. "But you don't think it's that, do you?"

He slid her a weary smile of confirmation. "I don't think so, no. But then again, I didn't think Remus would leave me when Sirius died, so I'm afraid I don't exactly know who to trust right now." A little shadow of doubt crossed his face. "Though I do think Snape isn't a likely choice."

Ah. So that was why she was here instead of Draco.

Much as Hermione regularly tried to ignore any chance that Hortense and Thibaut were right about literally anything—or Narcissa, for that matter, who certainly had moments of wild conjecture—it was becoming increasingly obvious that Harry's parents and godfather had taken some of their secrets to the grave. Whether anyone else had guarded those secrets on their behalf seemed to be the piece Harry had resisted any curiosity about until now.

"Maybe there's more to the story," Hermione commented slowly, which seemed to be the thing Harry had been waiting for.

"Yeah," he said, looking oddly satisfied. He must have been looking for someone to tell him to be a little reckless—to dig deeper for truth—and of course that was always going to be her. "Maybe there is."

* * *

There's a rumor that Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart's sudden race to publication has to do with public speculation about the courtiers who serve the House of Malfoy, which includes… you guessed it. Severus Snape. They can't write about us—Rita Skeeter in particular has to know that would be a losing battle—but there's plenty of people close to us who are fair game for anyone who likes to talk.

And who would have more to say than the family of mouthy armholes who sat in the shadows of someone else's rise to prominence?

* * *

_**a/n: **__It's been a bit of a struggle for me lately, so if you're having a hard time being cooped up you're definitely not alone. Thanks for staying home if you are able! We'll get through it together. Also, I am making some of my ebooks available during this time, so check in with my social media, where I am olivieblake._


	5. Be Pretty If You Can

**Chapter 5: Be Pretty If You Can**

_**BRITISH VOGUE**__, The official VOGUE UK Twitter page  
__** BritishVogue**_

_You can thank Astoria Poliakoff for Hermione Granger's evolving style! A recent study reports Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales (__**MalfoyRoyal**__) remains the most influential source on shopping patterns in both the United States and the United Kingdom. How a former Prince Draco paramour became the woman responsible for Hermione Granger's royal transformation [Article: __**10 things to know about Hermione Granger's stylist, Astoria Poliakoff**__]_

_1:32 PM - 7 Jan 2019  
__**1K**_ _Retweets __**2.3K **__Likes_

_** Big_D_**__  
Replying to __** BritishVogue**_

_think it fairly obvious draco made the wrong choice there_

_1:47 PM - 7 Jan 2019  
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I suppose most people would be surprised to learn that I do not consider myself preferable to Hermione. Granted, there are a number of reasons I might have made a better princess. A former version of myself might have even considered those reasons a compliment to my poise, which is perpetual, or to my composure, which is remarkable, or to my looks, which are undeniable. I might even be a better wife—in fact, I'm nearly confident I am. There are few things at which I do not excel. My brand of perfection belongs to a distant era; I am a classic as Narcissa once was, as Grace Kelly was, as Audrey Hepburn was. My features and qualities are timeless, by which I mean they are nostalgic and obsolete.

Which is why I do not begrudge Draco his choice.

* * *

_3 January 2019  
London, England_

Astoria Greengrass Poliakoff was one thing primarily. Most of her other qualities were up for debate, depending on the audience in question, but objectively speaking, anyone could see that she was beautiful above all.

She'd been aware of it for most of her life. Not _all_ of her life, like her older sister Daphne, who'd been one of those rosy-cheeked, lovely children with golden ringlets that turned to auburn as she aged. Astoria had grown into her own beauty slowly, maturing into it the same way she did everything else. By the time Astoria was thirteen, she understood that she didn't suffer from the same cosmetological challenges as her peers. She was naturally slender and toned, blessed with long legs and a rabid metabolism, plus a controlled appetite to match. She didn't have a sweet tooth; didn't care for savory snacks. She ate whatever she needed to in order to maintain a healthy, glossy shine to her dark hair and a dewy glow to her tan skin—which, while not quite olive-toned, was convincingly Mediterranean enough to ensure that she did not suffer much during pasty-white English winters. In terms of vices, Astoria had few of the usual ones. She drank sparingly, ate little, exercised to a respectable degree and rarely complained about the necessity of multi-step skincare.

What Astoria did crave, however, was attention.

Perhaps it was a consequence of having an older sister who was not only _more_ beautiful and _more_ charming and _more_ generally admired by everyone (particularly by her group of close-knit friends, which Astoria lacked) but who was also uniquely rebellious. Even the possibility of gaining attention via misbehavior was off the table, as Astoria's mother and father seemed to spend the majority of their time wondering what on earth Daphne was going to do next. She never did anything meriting familial excommunication, but that, too, left Astoria in a precarious position. What was Astoria supposed to do to set herself apart from Daphne, who was somehow perfect and talented while _also_ being the thorn in their parents' side?

The easiest way, for better or worse, was for Astoria to do what Daphne didn't and focus her attention almost entirely on men.

Dating Prince Draco had been an excellent start. Obviously Astoria had trained for that particular conquest well in advance, dallying over the course of her teenage years with heirs to this estate or that, but at the point she was introduced to Draco, she did not yet understand two things: 1) his attention would not last long (they never did) and 2) she would never again be the person she'd been before him. She was young at the time, only newly nineteen to his nearing twenty-one, and had yet to grasp the hazards of basing one's identity almost solely on the tastes and opinions of the opposite sex.

From the start it was an ill-fated match. For one thing, Astoria was too pedigreed to be of any interest to him, and for another, she'd miscalculated what sort of person he was. _Just be yourself_, Daphne had said—which was easy for Daphne to say, because she was the sort of person who had a self that other people admired. Astoria, being a girl of craving who understood only that the instances of herself she allowed others to see inevitably bored or suffocated them, had opted to ignore Daphne altogether. Instead, she dove obsessively into learning everything there was to know about the boy who would one day be king.

That was her first lesson about how unhelpful the media actually was when it came to the royal family, because while they effusively praised Prince Draco for his predilection towards diplomacy (true but unhelpful) or suggested that his hobbies included the usual male things (rugby, girls, football, getting rowdy with the lads, emotive alternative rock), Astoria was alarmed to discover that in reality, Draco was quick, quippish, and extraordinarily—almost off-puttingly—bookish. Most of his casual references were to obscure works of history, literature, or poetry, and though Astoria had attended the finest institutions in London, she'd always known her schooling was more about social networking than actual education. Right from the start she'd struggled to stay afloat in their courtship, trying and failing to make herself appealing to a boy who'd had equally beautiful girls vying for his favor throughout the entirety of his princely life.

So where had things gone wrong, exactly? Mistranslation. Draco mostly employed an incredibly niche dialect of quirks and idioms that only he and his friends were able to speak, and worse, while Astoria had plenty of experience with boys who only wanted one thing, Draco's 'one thing' was placating his father. The strained relationship between Prince Lucius and Prince Draco seemed to have been the only thing Rita Skeeter got right about him, but grasping the complexity of their relationship had taken too long for Astoria to properly leverage it. Within weeks of their introduction Draco had met his future wife, and one thing was for sure. She was not Astoria.

Being counted among Prince Draco's castoffs wasn't a totally useless thing, because it elevated Astoria to a new level of interest: notoriety. Before Draco, she'd been one of many indistinguishable ingenues (inheritance-wise she was a younger daughter and therefore more socialite than heiress), but after him she began to appeal to a new set of paramours. She began to attract the other notorites: the athletes, the Casanovas, the nouveau riche and celebrities of the moment. No more weak-chinned aristocrats and bankers' sons. Now her life was full of excitement, and so long as she played her cards well—which she did without fail; after Draco, she learned to hone her appeal, cultivating her persona without further misstep—she basked in the glamor of her own desirability, never less than half of the latest 'it' couple.

Attention. She had it. She savored it. And so long as she never got attached to any single conquest, she never stayed out of the spotlight for long.

Until she met Alex.

One thing nobody ever made clear about love was how quickly it could happen—or at least, that was the one thing nobody had bothered making clear to Astoria. She had mostly witnessed love in the form of her sister's pining for Theo or in Draco's ongoing turmoil with Hermione, and therefore did not realize it could take place on such an escalated time table. Granted, she'd had flings before, definitely. She'd known men who were so good in bed she'd had to drag herself out of it when the time inevitably came to return to the real world, to human society, and to general civilized decency, which it always eventually did.

But then… Alex.

He was upsettingly handsome, the sort of man who could be called beautiful and nobody would bat an eye. He was also unavailable to her at the time, which was inconceivably alluring. She'd been there with someone else entirely—Victor Krum, who'd given her three weeks of tabloid coverage and a handful of fairly decent orgasms—when she caught his eye from across the room, and he'd angled himself from the woman on his arm just slightly, just for a moment. He was at Astoria's side within minutes, plucking a champagne flute from a passing tray and holding it out for her, bold and unapologetic.

"Come home with me," he said.

She'd heard that before. "Aren't you with someone?"

"Now that I've seen you? Don't be absurd." His accent was unplaceable, vaguely European. She slid a glance over him, fighting any symptoms of visible appreciation. It wasn't very difficult to imagine him naked, slivers of moonlight offsetting tan skin. There were few things she appreciated more than the cut of a man's hips against pristine sheets.

"Not very chivalrous of you," she commented.

"It's not serious with her. Not like this." They were speaking softly, barely above a murmur, both facing the party as if they were the keen outside observers. For the first time, Astoria felt the most interesting thing in the room was happening privately to her rather than publicly, where the party actually was. "Don't you think?" he asked her, lifting his glass to his lips.

"You don't even know who I am," she said.

"Nobody here knows who they are," he said. "At least you make it look interesting."

She slid him a glance, reminding herself to be chronically unimpressed. "You're less charming than you think you are," she said, taking a sip from her own glass.

"It doesn't matter what I think." He dropped a hand surreptitiously, the tips of his fingers brushing hers. "You'll tire of him quickly," he commented, following her gaze to where Victor was surrounded by a small herd of fashion models.

"And if I don't?"

He glanced at her with eyes so blue she wanted to lay down and die in them.

"Phone?" he prompted.

She knew this game, too, so she slid it from her purse, depositing it playfully into his palm. "Sliding into my DMs?"

"I never slide." He typed his phone number into her contacts alongside his name: Alexander Poliakoff. "I'm going home alone," he said, handing the phone back to her. "Take the night. Consider it. Ring me in the morning."

"In the morning?" she echoed, accepting the phone with surprise.

"Get used to it," he advised. "You'll be waking up with me every morning soon."

"You're very sure of yourself," she commented drily. (Literally. Her mouth was dry.)

"Call it a premonition." He leaned in, grazing her cheek with a kiss. "Until tomorrow."

He left. She watched him go. She googled him. She paced the party, having another glass of wine. Then another. Victor laughed at a pretty blonde's unclever joke and Astoria slipped into the bathroom, dialing the number in her phone.

"Already?" he asked.

"How did you know it was me?"

"This is my personal phone number. Very few people have it."

"Are you some sort of secret agent?"

"Worse. I'm very rich."

She fought a laugh.

"Shall I come get you?" he prompted.

She bit her lip. "What happens if you do?"

"You'll come to my hotel room and we'll order room service. I'll run you a bath and find a pair of slippers for your feet, which must be tired."

She glanced down at her Louboutins, saying nothing.

"You'll fall asleep listening to stories of my childhood," he said, "and I'll wake you with a fresh cup of coffee."

"Not exactly what I expected from a man who opens with 'come home with me,'" she commented.

"I'm in no hurry. The night is young," he said.

By then she was accustomed to late night hotel appearances. She performed the usual rituals: asking the front desk to call her mobile phone after an hour, messaging a friend to periodically check in on her location, taking every precaution in case the man who was too good to be true was, indeed, too good to be true. He wasn't. Ultimately she woke just as Alex had promised: in his bed, wearing the fluffy hotel bathrobe, greeted with a cup of fresh coffee. Having spent the evening learning he was some sort of capitalist god five years her senior who'd grown up near the Baltic and now lived, conveniently, in one of the finest neighborhoods in London, the rest of their morning was spent on more interesting pursuits.

Within a week they were publicly dating. Within a month he'd said I love you. She said it back for the first time in her life, believing it with her entire soul. After four months they were essentially living together, vacationing together, all but inseparable. By eight months she'd gotten her period a few days late, exhaling with relief, but he'd caught her hand outside the door of his custom master bath.

"Let's have it all," he said to her, wrapping his arms around her and murmuring it in her ear: "Marriage, babies, the works. Let's do it."

She pulled away to stare at him, disbelieving. "You can't be serious, Alex. It's only been—"

"Who gives a damn how long it's been? You're the one, I love you, everything else is nothing." He pulled her into his arms, kissing her soundly. "Say yes," he said.

Come home with me. Say yes. Call it a premonition.

"Yes," she said. "Yes. Yes. Yes."

True to form, she hadn't known yet that she'd forgotten to do something over the course of their year and some-odd courtship. She married him in a resplendent ceremony with a custom gown and nearly didn't notice anything amiss, though by their first wedding anniversary it gradually became clear to her the tiny detail she had thus far overlooked.

That by giving her husband every conceivable reason to fall in love with her, she'd forgotten to show him who she actually was.

* * *

"You're going to be gone for how long this time?" she asked him, watching him pack his suitcase for possibly the thousandth time. She had once accompanied him on all of his trips, business and otherwise, but they'd both grown tired of the hassle. At first it had been exciting and they'd held hands and murmured little longings to each other for the entire flight, but then, gradually, he'd started working on his laptop and she'd started taking sleeping pills and when they landed he had meetings and besides, she'd already been to Paris many times, and so on and so forth until the jet lag got less and less manageable.

The first time they'd reluctantly agreed that she should just stay home, he'd taken two flights in twenty-four hours just to come home to her, to sleep in their bed. Then, over time, the trips had gotten longer and longer, with Alex explaining that his time abroad required more time spent with clients. Part of his job was keeping them, maintaining the existing relationships, while the rest was a matter of establishing new sources of obscene wealth to manage. Both vocations called for late nights, occasional partying, frequent reminders of don't worry Astoria, I love you. The I love yous over FaceTime became I love yous over the phone—noise in the background, raucous voices, women giggling and men calling for more shots. Eventually the I love yous came through over text, if they came through at all. Understandably, there were only so many times he could remind her.

"A week," Alex said, looking up as they began their usual pre-flight song and dance. "You're sure you don't want to come?"

"Don't worry about me," Astoria assured him. "I know you have to work. I'll just get in the way."

"You never get in the way," he said perfunctorily, though they both knew she unquestionably did. He nearly always came back to her sitting alone in the hotel suite staring out the window, and then they were both subjected to the trauma of watching him force a smile, obviously burdened once again with the task of entertaining his wife who didn't understand how he made his money.

But she did understand; that was the problem. Having been a bauble for male amusement in the past, she understood more than he suspected. She understood that when she was with him, Alex Poliakoff was kept from the possibility of 'networking'—that is, the nights with the lads where the deals were actually done. Astoria, a pragmatic sort of person, understood the necessity of those nightly bacchanals; she also understood the unspoken fraternal codes, the things they didn't mention to their wives. Alex's world was tit for tat, sin for sin. There was a reason the only thing his industry contained less of than women were faithfully married men.

"I'm sure you'll be more comfortable at home, anyway," Alex reassured her, as he always did. And he was right, in a way, even if it wasn't particularly comfortable for Astoria to remain halfway across the world, reminding herself not to wonder whether another woman was lying between her husband's sheets.

She sat beside the suitcase on the bed, glancing up at him. "Just don't stay away long," she said softly.

He stopped what he was doing, shifting to sit beside her.

"You know I love you," he said again, stroking her silken hair and touching his thumb to her blemishless cheek, her perfect pores.

"I know," she said. "And I love you."

He kissed her forehead and resumed packing. She rose to her feet, finishing the complex process of putting on the exact right outfit for the day before seeking out her purse where she'd left it in her closet. She kept her birth control pills in the lining of her bags; not because she expected Alex to seek them out, exactly, but because she was starting to think his lack of questioning indicated that he appreciated her efforts at keeping the truth from him. They hadn't discussed the possibility of children in some time, though it was increasingly difficult not to think about, given the predominance of a similar decision in Hermione's life.

Hermione.

The last thing Astoria had ever expected to be was in service to the woman who'd replaced her. Astoria's explanation to Alex about her decision to take the job had been straightforward: she was so often at home and unproductive, Hermione needed someone she trusted, it felt like the most obvious solution. He agreed, of course. He wasn't British and didn't have any particular feelings on the crown, so his wife being employed by a member of the royal family was neither estimable nor offensive in his view.

Astoria's explanation to herself, on the other hand, was somewhat… more complex. As reasonable a decision as it seemed to be when she put it in practical terms, she had a feeling there was something labyrinthine and emotive behind it. She had _longed_, in some strange way, for the position she was currently in. Perhaps it was the intimacy, or at least the intimacy implied by virtue of being entrusted with something. Whether that something happened to be a royal wardrobe or simply a glimpse into another woman's private life, the details remained unclear.

"Are you going running this morning?" called Alex from the other room.

"No," Astoria said, blinking herself out of her wandering thoughts. "I'm going to stop by the royal offices this afternoon," she explained, returning to the bedroom. "I thought I'd opt for a run on the palace grounds." With the weather so cold she couldn't stay outside for long, though there was something rewarding about the sharpness of cold air in her stagnant lungs. At the moment, a hard run offered her a brief reprieve from more oppressive feelings.

"Are the Waleses back yet?" Alex asked.

"Not yet. Monday."

"Ah, royals get such decadent holidays." He zipped the suitcase shut and stepped towards her, pulling her towards him. "I don't suppose you wish you'd married a prince, do you?"

Given how Hermione seemed to barely tread water when it came to the unyielding stress of her position, no, Astoria was quite sure she wouldn't leap to trade places. Then again, Hermione Granger had been unilaterally adored by the same man for close to the last decade, so perhaps it wasn't entirely a loss.

"Of course not," Astoria said, adjusting Alex's collar. Being a wife was easy, at least from the outside. Alex's needs were constantly attended to. She knew which shirts he needed dry-cleaned before he traveled, which suits he preferred to wear, and which socks he considered lucky. She knew what he liked to eat when he was home, what he needed to hear when he was stressed, how to touch him so he always felt wanted. She sent him articles she knew interested him, made him playlists full of songs he liked for his long flights. She tucked love letters into his pockets, sent him pictures of her breasts with near-professional studio lighting, and reminded him often (but not too often!) how attractive he was, how handsome, how brilliant. Having heard him cough earlier that week, she'd also packed him some extra vitamin C supplements and throat lozenges, slipping a packable water bottle into his briefcase with a reminder to stay hydrated, all of it signed with the swirl of her signature _A_ and an artful, calligraphic heart.

"Ah," he said, blinking. "I'll need an adaptor—"

"It's in the front of your suitcase," Astoria assured him.

"Thank you. Is it the—"

"Yes, I got rid of the dodgy one last time."

He looked down at her, smiling his beautiful smile.

"You're such a good wife," he said. "Have I mentioned that?"

Easy to be good at something that was her entire world.

"You're simple enough," she said, tilting her chin up.

"Well. Perhaps I ought to thank you properly, hm?"

She thrilled a little, pulse quickening when his hands slid down to her hips.

"You've got your work cut out for you," she assured him, like a woman who never wondered if she was still desirable. She gave him a teasing glance, like the person she used to be. Like a version of her who remained safely unconcerned with his estimation of her worth.

When Alex set his mind to devotion, he certainly did it well. He backed her against the wall of their bedroom, fingers sliding beneath the knickers she'd worn on purpose—the good pair he'd brought back for her for _no reason_, no reason except the pocket dial voicemail he'd left on her phone and the breathy female laughter that had filled it. He hooked his fingers around the lace and slid them down her legs, down the muscle she spent hours each week toning, the hips she zealously kept free of any excess sugar or carbs. He touched his thumb to her expensive Brazilian wax, soon to be lasered off because he preferred her smooth and bare, absent the primitive coarseness of a less perfect female form.

She pressed her Chanel lipstick to his neck, wanting to leave a mark; wanting to leave behind something more telling than the ring on his finger, which she knew from experience could easily be ignored. _Stay away, this one's mine_, she thought desperately to some nameless, faceless rival when Alex growled with arousal, his hands rough beneath the French lace of her bra.

If there was such a thing as fucking a man into fidelity, she tried it. He broke the zipper on her dress and she said nothing, letting him force one of her legs aloft until it rested on his shoulder. She had the dexterity of a ballerina, the theatrics of a porn star. She'd done everything right. She had the right birth, the right face, the right hair, the right skin, the right amount of distance between her thighs. She asked for nothing and she did everything right.

(She did _everything right_, so why wouldn't he—?)

She gasped, choking on the bitterness of pleasure and pain, and he kissed her the way he always did, like a man without secrets. The trouble with being so attracted to her husband was this—her desperation for his approval. She craved him like an addict, like a drug, accepting whatever he offered her if only to have anything at all.

"Wish I didn't have to leave," he said, still panting, hands braced on either side of the wall behind her head. "But I can't miss my flight."

She wiped the smear of lipstick from his jaw, feeling her chest tighten to be rid of its traces so easily.

"Go," she said, and kissed him goodbye again.

He loved her. She knew that. It wasn't that he deprived her of affection. It wasn't that he didn't want her, nor that he didn't care. It was that each day she found herself satisfied with less and less of him until she could feel herself rendering down to a sliver, ground to smaller and smaller pieces just to fit into his retreating hands.

* * *

She hadn't really expected anyone to be in the offices of Kensington Palace when she showed up, but upon finding the door unlocked, she decided it wouldn't be that surprising if Snape were there. Unlike Hermione, Astoria didn't find herself exceptionally opposed to Severus Snape. He kept to himself and didn't say much unless he had to. When he was addressed, which was sparingly, he gave his opinion without elaboration and rarely if ever smiled. It had served him well, all things told. In Astoria's opinion, Snape was the sort of man she probably would have been if she'd had the option of being one. If not for a lifetime of "smile, Astoria" and "be nice, Astoria," she'd gladly be surly and irritable herself.

To her surprise, though, it wasn't Snape at all.

"Um," Astoria said, setting down the small hanging fern she'd intended to put in Hermione's office and glancing around with a frown. "Well, hello," she said to the small child who was currently standing on top of one of the office's chairs. He was plucking a book from the shelf, or seemed to be, but upon closer inspection Astoria realized he was actually in the process of dropping the entire shelf's contents into a pile on the floor.

He couldn't have been older than three or four—so she assumed, given the naughtiness—but presumably children that age could speak. (Astoria had no idea how old Jamie was, but being much smaller and still a chatty little thing suggested some level of conversational aptitude.)

"Do you… belong to someone?" asked Astoria.

The boy frowned at Astoria, a first edition almanac held between two fingers. "Who are you?"

"I really don't think that's the more pressing question," said Astoria, as Percy Weasley—of all people!—came panting into the office with a set of keys and a tablet under one arm.

"Sorry, sorry, I've got them," he said to the boy, breathless with haste, and then fell to a halt at the sight of Astoria. "Oh," he said, cheeks coloring slightly. "Sorry, did we disturb you?"

"No, you didn't disturb me, I was just…" Astoria trailed off, glancing between Percy and the boy who remained atop the office chair. The latter was more of a strawberry blond, cheekily scowling and narrow-eyed, but Percy's glasses and stuffy formality aside, the resemblance was undeniable.

"Wait," she said, and again, Percy's cheeks flushed. "Is this… are you…?"

"This is my son, yes," Percy said uncomfortably, rushing to pick up the pile of books from the floor. "Please," he said to the boy, "please get down from there."

"Nope. Shan't," said the boy, pointedly dropping another book.

"Very strong-minded for his age," said Astoria. "He's not in school yet, is he?"

"I'm seven," said the boy.

"Oh." Jesus. "Never mind." She turned to Percy, who was painstakingly gathering the pile of books in his arms. "How on earth do you have a seven-year-old son that none of us have ever heard of?"

"My parents are divorced," replied the boy flatly, dropping another book onto the floor. "My father hates me."

"That's not true," Percy said, looking pained. "I told you, Will—"

"Don't call me that," said Will, who evidently did not like to be called that.

"Fine, William, please—"

"Don't tell me you actually _prefer_ William," Astoria said doubtfully, and the boy looked at her, torn between continuing to torment his father and answering the question.

"Mum calls me Will," he said.

"And?" prompted Astoria.

"And it's _different_," he declared in a huff, knocking a globe from the shelf that landed in his scrambling father's hands.

"I'm so sorry," said Percy quickly, hoisting Will off the chair with a strength Astoria did not know he possessed. "His mother and I have a somewhat… unequal custody arrangement."

"Let me down," demanded Will, thrashing in his father's arms. "You're the one who hates me!"

"That's—" Percy set a wriggling Will onto his feet and sighed, glasses knocked askew from the motion of a tyrannical elbow. "That's not true," he murmured helplessly, as Will promptly sank like a stone to the floor and refused to budge. "William," he sighed, crouching down next to him. "Please. You know I've asked to see more of you—"

"Don't touch me!"

"I'm not touching you," said Percy calmly. "I'm just trying to explain th-"

"I don't _care_." The defiant child's voice went whiny, like a toddler deprived a nap. "I don't care what you think. I hate you!" he burst with outrage, lower lip trembling as he turned away.

Percy reeled back at that, either hurt or stunned, and Astoria, who had not signed up for any of this, flicked a glance toward the door, wondering whether she ought to leave them to it. Before she could, though, Percy had recollected his wits, rising sharply to his feet and beginning to mechanically replace the mislaid books on the shelf.

"Again, I'm terribly sorry, I know this is all very unprofessional," he said in an undertone to Astoria, who had forgotten for a moment that this uniquely traumatic moment between father and son was occurring within the office where work was typically conducted. "His mother usually keeps him for the holidays. And, well, most days." He slid a glance to where Will had curled up on the floor, his back turned to them, and for a moment, Astoria couldn't decide which boy she felt the stronger urge to comfort.

"Don't you have a brother named William?" she asked Percy instead.

"Hm? Yes, Bill, my eldest brother. A lovely thing my wife did, naming our son after the one person in my life I could never possibly live up to." He gave her a thin smile, returning the shelf to its usual pristine condition.

Astoria found she was completely incapable of imagining Percy as a father. Granted, she was watching him do it at that very moment, but even then it seemed so far outside the scope of reality that she was having trouble processing it. He'd never struck her as the type of person whose home was filled with children's games and toys; in fact he seemed almost faultlessly Adult, as if he'd simply manifested with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and an argyle jumper. But then she remembered he didn't seem to have a relationship with his son at all, so perhaps that would explain it.

On the floor, Will seemed to have fallen asleep. He was like a puppy that way, energy extinguished from his outburst. Now that he was silent, Astoria could see he was most likely quite small for his age, and the features he shared with his father were so delicate they were nearly angelic on him at the moment.

"The whole thing was rather disastrous with Audrey," Percy explained, murmuring it to Astoria as he observed the tiny coil of fury that was his sleeping child. "Eventually it came down to her disliking how much time I spent at the office. Which was my own fault, I'll admit," he provided as a caveat, grimacing askance at Astoria, "though the marriage was unlikely to stick regardless—and now I'm afraid Will and I have been on something of an irreversible decline. The less time I get to spend with him," Percy sighed, "the further he turns against me."

"I'm sure he's just crying out for attention," Astoria offered diplomatically.

Percy was quiet for a moment, appearing to silently disagree.

"I adored my father," he eventually said in a low voice. "We all did. We had our squabbles of course, all families do, and I was certainly never his favorite. But even in anger, none of us would have ever said that we _hated_—"

He broke off, clearing his throat.

"In any case, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention this to anyone," he managed after a moment, plucking his son's coat from a nearby chair and laying it over Will like a blanket before scooping him up in his arms. In sleep, the boy was so docile he was nearly picturesque, and Astoria could see the pain on Percy's face, the caution with which he held his only child. "I'd planned to stay longer at my parents', but then my ex-wife called, and…"

"It's really not a problem," Astoria assured him. After all, it wasn't her books Will had been tossing onto the floor. "How long will you have him before he goes back to his mother?"

Percy hesitated, adjusting to lean Will's head more comfortably against his shoulder.

"Audrey's mother is ill," he said. "I'm not entirely sure how long she'll be away."

"Is Will in school, or…?"

Percy shook his head. "They're not due back until next week. I'll have to find someone to watch him during the day, but—"

"You can always bring him here," Astoria said, unsure what had brought her to say it. She knew only that she'd spent most of her life trying to please adult men and highly doubted younger versions of them were much more difficult. "I'd be happy to keep an eye on him. It's not as if I have much to do when Hermione's on holiday."

"I couldn't ask you to do that," Percy said. Will shifted in his arms, but didn't wake. Percy, who seemed aware his son might soon resume his tantrum, opted to aim himself out the door. "Thank you for offering, but—"

"Bring him tomorrow," Astoria wanted to suggest. "Really. If you can't find anyone else, I'll watch him. We can wander the palace," she might have said, deciding on the first thing that might be interesting to a seven-year-old boy. "Truly, I don't think Hermione or Draco will mind, and I know a little something about broken things."

But that was not what happened.

"Okay," was all Astoria said when Percy turned to leave, because she was not especially good with children. Neither she nor Daphne had spent much time around them, and when they _were_ children, they'd both been exceedingly aware they'd have to hurry up and become adults.

In many ways, though, Astoria knew what Will was feeling because she was feeling it herself. She knew something of what it was to want more of someone, to want all of them without exception, and to be deprived of that for adult reasons; for reasons that were logical and finite, and yet that might never really make any sense. Sometimes Astoria, too, wanted to destroy her husband's things and scream that she hated him only to fall asleep on the floor until he carried her gently to bed.

But seeing as she and Percy were merely colleagues who knew almost nothing about each other, she watched him go and returned to the task of watering Hermione's new fern.

* * *

"Happy New Year," came Padma's cheerful voice when she answered. "I hope this isn't work-related."

"Only marginally," Astoria assured her. "I've actually rung to tell you something I've been expressly forbidden to bring up." She couldn't get it off her mind, and naturally there was only one person to speak to about it.

"Oh, well in that case, go ahead," said Padma. "Is it Snape? Is he secretly bald?"

"Snape? Please. Whatever that is he's got slicked away from his face, it's definitely all his," Astoria said with a roll of her eyes as Padma chuckled on the other end. "It's about Percy, actually. Did you know he had a son?"

"Oh, is that all? Alas," sighed Padma dramatically. "I did already know that. William, isn't it? Will?"

"Yes. Have you met him?"

"Of course not, Percy almost never has him. Wait," Padma registered belatedly, sounding as if she'd sprung upright. "Do you mean to tell me that you actually _met_ Percy's son?"

"Yes, this afternoon." Having guessed correctly that what she'd witnessed in the office was something valuable indeed, Astoria was immensely pleased with herself.

"What's he like? I've only seen pictures."

"You've actually seen pictures?"

"Mm, he's surprisingly chatty when he's got some alcohol in his system."

It took a moment to realize Padma was referring to their adult colleague, not his aforementioned offspring. "Wait a minute. Percy _drinks_?"

"Oh, absolutely yes. He makes a spectacular margarita, actually."

"He does? Why don't I know this?"

"Well, Percy and I have bonded somewhat as the two sad singles in the office," said Padma. "Aside from Snape," she amended as an afterthought, "though I think he's essentially the male equivalent of a spinster."

"Huh." Astoria leaned back in her chair, considering it. "Why isn't there a male equivalent?"

"I think it might be a bachelor?"

"But that's very nearly complimentary."

"Well, life isn't fair," Padma acknowledged sagely. "And anyway, you're always invited to join us, you know. We just assume you have better things to do than get pissed at the office."

"He makes margaritas _in the office_?"

"Only the once, and anyway that's beside the point. What's he like?"

"Percy? The same as he always is, only more… frazzled."

"Not Percy, you goon. William."

"Oh, a small nightmare," said Astoria. "He climbed onto a chair and started dropping books on the floor. Swatting them down," she clarified, "like a recalcitrant cat."

"Oh, Christ." Padma laughed. "Brilliant. What a wonderful child to not have to personally parent."

"My thoughts precisely." Astoria sat down at her desk, glancing absently over her diary. "Do you know much about the ex-wife? I didn't even know he was married."

"He keeps it to himself. Understandably," Padma added. "It wasn't very long ago that divorce was frowned upon within the royal offices, as I'm sure you're aware. I think he suspected Snape wouldn't have agreed to his appointment if he'd known."

"Do you actually think there's anything about any of us that Snape doesn't know?"

"Probably not." Another laugh. "Still, it's best we get to keep our secrets."

Astoria paused, her thoughts catching on the particularity of Padma's phrasing. "Does that mean you have a secret son I should know about, too?"

"No, no. You know this office's brand is strained _paternal_ relationships," Padma said cheerfully. "No secret children here, I'm afraid."

"So what's your secret, then?" Astoria closed her diary, forgetting it entirely.

"I'm certainly not going to tell you over the phone. And anyway, weren't you asking about Percy's ex-wife? They loathe each other, apparently. She got pregnant when the marriage was already failing and they tried to stay together for the kid, which only made it worse—"

"Tell me your secret," Astoria said firmly. "I demand to know it."

She could hear Padma's smirk through the phone. "What makes you think I only have one?"

"Well, tell me one, then."

"Are you really so bored, Astoria? We ought to find you more work to do."

"I was going to go for a run in a bit," Astoria said, glancing out the window to the dreariness of grey winter sky. "But given the excitement, I thought I'd bother you instead."

"You're never a bother." On the other end, she heard Padma pouring herself something. "In fact I wish you bothered me more."

"You say that now," Astoria said admonishingly. "You're lucky my mother raised me properly or you'd come to regret that soon enough."

"Would I?" Padma sounded amused.

"With remarkable haste."

"Well, I find that very doubtful."

"I'm here pestering you about secrets and gossip aren't I? So really my upbringing is suspect."

"Frankly, I'm relieved to hear it." Padma chuckled. "How about this? Get a drink with me sometime. We can misbehave somewhere delightfully pedestrian."

"It's a possibility," Astoria acknowledged, suppressing a rush of pleasure at the invitation. People did not often follow through with their plans and there was no use wasting the energy. "But at least give me _something _before I die of intrigue. Or boredom."

"Hm, well, Percy suspects his ex-wife is getting remarried soon," Padma said. "There's been talk of a potential stepfather who doesn't care much for Will."

Unsurprising, given what Astoria knew of the boy's personality. "Exactly how often does Percy get to see him?"

"As far as I know his presence is unprecedented. Their arrangement is something terribly retaliatory," Padma explained. "Bitter custody battle and what have you. If you ask me, she's the one filling the poor boy's head with vitriol."

"Poor thing," Astoria sighed. "Though I suppose none of us can ever know what precisely goes wrong in a marriage."

There was a somewhat lengthy pause.

"I suppose not," Padma said. "Though," she added with a slight change in tone, "I am terribly curious about Will, I'll admit."

"I think there's a sweetness there," Astoria said, thinking of the boy's delicate features, his silly little moment of pause when she'd spoken directly to him. "Maybe."

"People often have hidden depths," Padma agreed. "And I certainly wouldn't put it past you to see them."

"What does that mean?" Astoria asked, surprised and somewhat wary.

Padma laughed again. "Only that I think you have a few secrets of your own."

* * *

The return of Hermione and Draco from Sandringham was a relief, as it meant Astoria was once again overcome with the problems of someone else. Specifically, the logistical necessities and wardrobe problems of someone else, for which there was a pleasant, reliable balance of creativity, detail, and mindless habit. Hermione herself looked quite rested from her holiday, though she called Astoria into her office privately within moments of walking in.

"What do you know about Remus Lupin?" she asked, and Astoria frowned.

"Who?"

"Yes, it's the strangest thing, isn't it?" Hermione said, in the sort of half-present way she sometimes conducted herself. Occasionally she seemed particularly cerebral, as if she were conducting only half the conversation out loud. "Draco says there's nothing to know, but I find that exceedingly unlikely. Didn't Percy say the most interesting thing about Penelope Clearwater was her lack of internet history?"

"Lupin," Astoria repeated, trying to recall the name despite her inability to place it. "Is that… another relative?" She had only recently become acquainted with Kensington's other residences, Hortense and Thibaut, who had the strangest habit of startling when she spoke as if they hadn't noticed she was there. Hortense specifically had begun referring to her as the Invisible Girl, which Astoria wasn't sure she appreciated. Though, at least she wasn't being bombarded with anything worse.

"Oh, sorry, no. Yes. Well, I'm not sure." Hermione frowned. "He used to be on the Grimmauld staff, according to Harry. He was Sirius' lawyer, as far as I can gather."

None of the research Astoria had done about Sirius turned up any scandal involving a lawyer. Or any details of anything, really. Unless the lawyer had been the one to muzzle the Dursleys before they could get to Harry… but that was hardly worth speculating about. What lawyer worth his salt would have ever allowed them into a young boy's life to begin with, particularly given the extent of his inheritance?

"Well, that sounds reasonably dull," commented Astoria.

"Or is it suspiciously dull, possibly?" countered Hermione, who did love to overthink things. "It's odd, but I have the strangest feeling there's more to the story."

"Are you sure you're not simply searching around for something to fixate on?" Astoria asked her, just as Draco knocked on the door and strode inside.

"Astoria," he said, greeting her with a smile as he slid around Hermione's desk to kiss the top of her still-pondering head. "How was your holiday?"

"Lovely," said Astoria. "And yours?"

"Entirely too brief." He gave her another smile before directing his attention to his wife. "You're not still playing detective with Harry, are you?" he prompted, appearing to read her mind with fond exasperation. "I told you there's nothing to be concerned about. There's no such thing as an exclusive source that can detonate the monarchy, no matter what Skeeter claims—"

"Skeeter?" echoed Astoria.

"Yes," Draco sighed when Hermione grimaced. "Snape will likely discuss it with the rest of the team," he added, just as Astoria's tablet dinged with an event notification for later that evening. "Ah, see?" he said knowingly, giving Hermione a nudge. "And as for you, my wily minx, we're meant to leave in an hour."

"Oh, alright," said Hermione distractedly, though she smiled when Draco's arms came around her. "Did you think I wouldn't be able to walk myself ten feet out the door without your help? Astoria's right here," she said with a roll of her eyes, "in the event my understanding of linear time collapses."

"It's just another of my flaws, I'm afraid. I've become entirely too accustomed to seeing you every hour of my day." Draco paused to glance over Hermione's face like he was checking on a favorite painting, reassuring himself that everything was as he remembered it. Then he kissed her, straightening to smile again at Astoria. "This color really suits her," he said approvingly, referencing the coatdress Astoria had chosen for the occasion, and then he strode to the door, disappearing into the corridor as Hermione's gaze followed him out.

"Well," Hermione said, snapping herself out of her temporary distraction. "Sorry," she added to Astoria, not entirely able to rid herself of a smile in the wake of Draco's visit. "What were we discussing?"

"Oh, nothing important," Astoria assured her, glancing up when Padma knocked on the office door.

"We're all set for this afternoon," Padma announced to Hermione. "Astoria's accompanying you and Draco, as you clearly already know, and—oh," she added, turning to Astoria, "and I know this is an absurd thing to say, but do be careful you don't, ah. Look too lingeringly at His Highness."

"I beg your pardon?" Astoria asked, startled.

"It's nothing," Padma said with a wave of a hand, dismissing Astoria's moment of bemusement. "Just a bit of nonsense, but I figured it better said than unsaid."

"Oh _god_," Hermione exhaled. "Don't tell me they think Draco's cheating on me with a member of my own staff?"

"The presumption of happiness bores people," Padma reminded her. "If you'd like to engineer a moment of sentimental hand-holding, that might be wise. Alternatively, it is raining," she commented thoughtfully. "I'll have Percy make sure Draco holds the umbrella."

"Oh, for fork's sake," muttered Hermione blisteringly. "It's total nonsense," she added to Astoria, apparently feeling the need to reassure her. "I should have expected it, really. With this book coming out they're all looking for evidence of something."

But Astoria _was_ feeling a bit of guilt, actually. Since her marriage she'd grown accustomed to considering herself something on the periphery, uninteresting and therefore out of sight. The socialites whose portraits filled the society pages were younger than Astoria now—younger each day, or so it seemed—which made her feel positively vestigial by comparison. She had a feeling she _had_ been looking longingly at Draco, forgetting it might have been captured on film. In fairness, though, it had less to do with the man himself than it did with… other things about him.

Like, for example, his love for his wife.

"I'll keep my adoring stares to Hermione from now on," Astoria said drily, and Padma slid her a smile, this one a quiet indication of _you're funny—we'll talk later._

The rest of the morning progressed as normal. Percy slid into the private car without looking at Astoria, delivering his usual updates on the office's tweets for the week and getting Draco and Hermione to sign off on about a dozen press releases before promptly stepping into another car and returning to the office upon arrival at the mental health facility where the Prince and Princess of Wales would be making their appearance. He made no mention of his son at all, though Astoria had always doubted he was going to. Percy's obvious unwillingness to meet her eye suggested the two of them would be encumbered with some amount of awkwardness for quite a long time.

It was dark by the time she returned to the office, nearly half an hour after her promised meeting time with Snape. She was unsurprised to find that he was still waiting for her, the single lamp at his desk illuminated while he worked.

"Sorry," she said, knocking at his open door frame. In the dim light of his study he looked older than his fifty-some years, dark gaze rising to hers without expression. "We ran a little behind, and then I wanted to review some things for tomorrow—"

"Understood. Sit," he said, gesturing her into the chair opposite his desk. Astoria sat carefully, glancing up at the various objects on his walls. The office was extremely sparse, save for its books, and only the ceremonial acknowledgements of his service to the crown served as any decoration. (Though there were, indeed, many.)

"I imagine you'll have heard by now that Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart are both releasing books about the royal family later this year," Snape said, and Astoria nodded. "I do not need to impress upon you the difficulty this will pose for coming months."

"Business as usual?" Astoria guessed.

"Depends," Snape said, leaning back in his chair. "We will strategize and adapt as things move forward, as always. But on a somewhat… unique note," he said in his drawling monotone, "if there's anything I need to know about you, it is better I know it now."

"Me?" She frowned. "I thought the book was about the family."

"It is and it isn't." He slid his reading glasses from his face, toying with them. "It is, in larger terms, about The Firm," he clarified. "The family and everyone who keeps the family in business, if you will."

"Do they suspect you of some sort of Cromwellian ambition?" asked Astoria, wanting to laugh at the thought of it. Snape, however, shrugged.

"Influencing the crown is certainly not what it once was," he acknowledged, which was relatively close to a joke. "But it is true that there are some things better left out of the public narrative when it comes to the royal family. Perception, as you know, is everything."

She wondered what exactly made this particular crisis different from the others. As far as she could tell, this sort of PR nightmare was practically recurring, but Snape's insistence on meeting with her alone suggested otherwise.

"May I… speak freely a moment?" Astoria asked him. To Snape's silence, which she interpreted as acquiescence, she remarked, "The downfall of the monarchy seems a fairly distant concern." He said nothing, and she continued, "People have been calling for its eradication for nearly a century, if not more. Nobody's actually going to dismantle it, so I'm just curious what our end goal is."

Snape pursed his lips, just slightly.

"When you have served as long as I have," he said, "you come to understand that you are tasked with protecting something precious from the harm that others wish it out of spite, or envy. It is a nurturing of sorts."

"So that requires… pristinity?"

"In a sense." He toyed with his reading glasses again before straightening. "In any case, is there anything I should know?"

"What do you already know?" Astoria asked, which she felt was an innocent enough question. Unfortunately Snape felt it worth an oppressive answer.

"Weasley's divorce was considered at the time of his appointment to the office," he said. "As was Miss Patil's sexual orientation."

Astoria blinked. "What?"

"Your past was also considered." Snape gave her a withering look. "I advised against your appointment to this role, but as you can see, I was overruled. Altogether the office is probably more sympathetic for its diversity, but in terms of getting in front of any scandal—"

"Diversity?" Astoria echoed, astonished. A divorced man was so commonplace it was laughable to even call it that. As for Padma, she was… hm. Padma had spoken of boyfriends in the past—even Daphne had mentioned one—so was she possibly bisexual?

And as for Astoria herself—

"You, at least, seem to have put your past behind you," Snape remarked, and though it was difficult to tell (his tone hadn't changed), she suspected it was a compliment. "You're in a respectable marriage, you come from a good family, and your sister is without question well-admired. I will be the first to admit I was wrong to suspect you'd be a problem."

"Assuming I don't do something horrific like leave my husband for a woman, you mean," Astoria said. Again it was meant to be a joke, though she could taste the bitterness as she said it.

Snape seemed to lose patience with the direction of conversation. "As a final point," he continued, "it has come to my attention that you've been looking into Remus Lupin."

"How on _earth_ could you know that?" Astoria asked, before abruptly remembering she had googled the name that morning when Hermione brought it up. To that she had to fight a shudder, suffering the unwelcome sensation of being watched.

Snape didn't bother acknowledging the question. "Here is what you need to know about Remus Lupin," he said flatly, "and none of it is to leave this room."

Astoria frowned, but said nothing.

"Remus Lupin attended Eton College alongside the Duke of Grimmauld's predecessor, Sirius Black, who later became the guardian and benefactor to—"

"Prince Harry," Astoria registered aloud.

Snape gave a single nod in confirmation. "When Lupin and Black were at Eton, there was… an incident. A student was killed. All three were questioned—"

None of that was remotely what Astoria had expected to hear. "Three?"

"Yes. Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and James Potter."

"Oh." Astoria frowned. "And the student…?"

"His death was ultimately ruled an accident." Snape paused. "Though some did have… lingering suspicions."

She was surprised none of that had come up in her google search. Belatedly, she realized: of course it hadn't. Someone must have made sure of that.

"Despite an admirable performance at university, Lupin's reputation was irreversibly tarnished," Snape said. "The other two were nobility, so they retreated for the most part to their titles and wealth. Ultimately Lupin went into service for the Blacks while the former Duke of Grimmauld still lived."

"Okay," Astoria said slowly. "And…?"

"I, meanwhile, joined the office of the Prince of Wales shortly after university," said Snape, which was somewhat jarring for Astoria. She'd forgotten that the narrator in this particular scandal might have also been a character in its occurrence. "Even before Black's death, it was Prince Lucius' highest priority to eradicate any involvement of the Grimmauld title or the Potter name in the student's death. Harry had already become inextricably close to Prince Draco," Snape explained, "and given the closeness between the boys, any poor reflection on one house would of course necessitate a shadow over the House of Malfoy."

"Why are you telling me this?" Astoria asked him, dazed.

"Because Remus Lupin and I are the last people alive with any knowledge of what happened that night," he said, and before Astoria could focus on the tiny detail of his own possible involvement, he had already moved on. "I will not pretend to understand the Princess of Wales outside of the fact that she is reluctant to follow my instructions. Harry is no different." Snape's mouth tightened. "I can do nothing about the Duke of Grimmauld. He has his own advisors. However, I trust you will find a way to keep Their Royal Highnesses from speaking to the Dursleys or to Lupin himself."

"Me?" Astoria echoed. "Why?"

"Because you are practical," Snape said conclusively. "You, Lady Astoria, are a pragmatist. The Princess is easily misguided, and she has great need of someone on her staff to remind her the purpose she serves."

"I'm practical," Astoria repeated dully. She internalized it with a mix of repulsion and horror, realizing how she must appear to anyone who looked at her closely. She was a beautiful girl who had leveraged her looks and her breeding to secure an advantageous marriage. She had been cunning enough to bury the dalliances of her past in her influential new surname. In that one sensible act, her womanhood was now and forever defined by the role she'd fulfilled the moment she slid Alexander Poliakoff's three carat Cartier diamond onto her finger.

Every choice Astoria Greengrass had ever made was safe, measured, a predictable rung on a ladder of conventional feminine success. Scandals aside—and she had done well to cast them aside, hadn't she? The wild girl who'd longed for recognition had disappeared into the role of a respectable wife who sat at home, waiting—she was now the portrait of a proper noblewoman.

So that was it, then. She was beautiful and practical and invisible. At best knowingly ambitious, at worst docile and conformable. Which was why Astoria was the perfect foil to a woman who was headstrong and defiantly in search of truth, even at great cost to herself.

Astoria made her way out of the office in something of a lingering haze, complying with Snape's request and promising to do everything she could to keep Hermione from running away with her imagination. Privately, she agreed with him; there was no use entertaining whatever stories were left from a man whose alienation from society had been all but etched in stone before he even turned seventeen. A great deal of trouble had rendered the past dead and buried, and as far as Astoria was concerned, Hermione did herself no good resurrecting them. What truth would possibly be worth the trouble it brought?

Practical. That was Astoria's specialty, and practically speaking, Hermione had other things to worry about. Children. Her reputation. Diplomatic dressing. The survival of the royal family. Her ascension to the throne as Draco's consort and what that would mean for herself, for her children, for her legacy. In Astoria's opinion, Hermione was exactly the type to distract herself from the difficult things, so it was easy to acknowledge that yes, it was her job to keep Hermione insulated in some way. To keep her focused.

Astoria's phone buzzed twice as she was gathering her things to go home for the evening. The first was a message from Alex: _Just landed at Heathrow. See you soon xx_

The second was from Padma: _Drinks this evening? Unless you're busy, of course, being happily married and generally functional… which truthfully I'd know nothing about_

Astoria considered it, projecting the outcome of her evening. Doubtless Alex would be exhausted from his travels. He'd bring her something, a new piece of jewelry most likely. The diamond necklace she wore was from a particularly long trip, about the length of this one. They'd have dinner and he'd hurry her upstairs; they'd fall into bed together and she'd try not to compulsively check his clothes for perfume, for strands of hair, for lipstick. She'd fight the paranoia—had he always kissed her like that? Was that something new he was doing with his tongue, with his fingers, and if it was then how had he learned it? Did he taste different? Was she imagining it? Was she, the person that she was, the person that she used to be—had _that_ been in her imagination? He'd fall asleep and she'd creep into the bathroom. She'd eye her pedicured toes against pristine Italian marble floors and think, Why isn't this enough anymore?

(She'd think, impractically, Had this ever been enough?)

"Hey," Padma said, glancing up with a smile when she walked in. "I'm glad you could come."

"So, question," Astoria replied without preamble, setting down her purse. "Do you think Snape's ever killed anyone?"

"Oh my god, absolutely yes," Padma said with obvious delight, sliding a gin and tonic across the table to Astoria. "Don't you?"

She smiled, and Astoria wondered if maybe Padma thought she was funny; if Padma thought her humor was dry or wry or clever; if Padma considered her a friend. She wondered if Padma considered her practical or beautiful. She wondered if Padma considered her happy.

"Okay good, just checking," Astoria said, taking a sip of her drink, which was blasphemously strong. "This is _profoundly_ disgusting," she said, immediately taking another sip, and Padma let out a startling laugh, or a startled one.

Which, it turned out, would be the first such laugh of a long and pleasant evening, and one that Astoria hoped was not the last.

* * *

A not-insignificant part of me knows when I fall into bed beside my sleeping husband that I love him exceedingly, immensely, prodigiously. I feel for him so deeply that I've built myself around that love, the conjoined twins of my desires and my worth.

He opens his eyes and looks at me and I think he takes a moment to recognize me, my face, the shape I take beside him.

I don't tell him that I feel a sudden need to plant myself somewhere that isn't so fragile, to build myself on something that stays more often than it leaves. I don't tell him that actually, I find his work devoid of value, absent of meaning, vacant of worth. I don't tell him that I wish I had not tried to be more than my sister—hadn't wasted my time with her trying desperately to prove I wasn't less—because maybe if I'd been her friend, I would have been stronger, surer, or at very least capable of choosing a man I trusted to love my flaws.

"You're so beautiful," my husband whispers to me, and because I know he means it, because I know it's true, I don't tell him that I know. Because so long as he believes it, I won't have to ask myself if I am anything else.

So I kiss him, still willing to bury myself in his hands, and waste away a little further into the consequences of the night.

* * *

_**a/n: **__I sense my mood is slightly off, so I may step away for a week to regroup in terms of crafting this story's atmosphere. Tbd. I'm about halfway through a totally unrelated nottpott one-shot, so you can probably expect to see that in Amortentia sometime this weekend. Stay home, stay sane! __Oh, and if you want me to read you a story, find Olivie Blake is Not Writing on apple podcasts or podbean._


	6. No Legacy So Rich as Honesty

**Chapter 6: No Legacy So Rich as Honesty**

_**Us Weekly**__, Your trusted source for celebrity news and more!  
usweekly_

_Hermione Granger rests a hand lovingly on her stomach… Will there be a #RoyalBaby this summer? Exclusive family source hints: It's twins!_

_1:25 PM - 13 Apr 2019  
__**54**_ _Retweets __**231 **__Likes_

Interesting take, considering last week I was too thin and, I quote, "wasting away." I guess this is all just a matter of whether I'm being photographed before or after lunch, so let that be a lesson to me to go easy on the clotted cream. (Also, as far as "exclusive" family sources go in the U.S., I'm going to pin this one on my dad's second cousin, who has an entire collection of porcelain Princess Narcissa plates and nobody else to talk to.)

I'm sure it will come as no surprise to anyone that Womb Watch 2019 has become something of a transatlantic hobby. It's still in the optimistic stages of speculation, but it's certainly no secret what everyone expects from me. Daphne's sympathetic, but more in a commiseration sort of way—people have been on her case about it for years, so she can certainly relate, but at the same time, her circumstances are slightly (drastically) different, so telling me not to be in a rush is easier said than done. Pansy's Pansy, so her version of sympathy is "Understandably things are not what one would hope, but I did warn you," which is not exactly ideal.

But hey. At least I haven't broken the monarchy yet, right?

* * *

_February 14, 2019  
Buckingham Palace, London, England_

"Well, at least in some respects I've bought you dinner," Draco remarked, half-smirking into his glass as Hermione fought not to roll her eyes in public.

"Not that I've ever been one for Valentine's Day, but I hardly think this counts," she said.

It was yet another State affair, inauspiciously timed. In advance of their forthcoming tour of Pakistan, which was itself in advance of their tour of Ireland, there were still a variety of diplomatic missions to be made. With the global outcry against Scrimgeour and Brexit only increasing in volume, Abraxas had chosen to weaponize the Commonwealth's best PR tool: the young and attractive newlyweds of Wales, who set about promoting unity and harmony while blithely skirting any political discussions of immigration, class disparity, or racism.

Simple enough.

"I'm sure there's something to be done about it," Draco said, referring to the somewhat unsatisfactory way they'd been asked to spend their first Valentine's Day as a married couple. He angled them away from the rest of the cocktail hour's populace, distancing them from the crowd. "More gifts, possibly?"

Hermione lightly fingered the little dewdrops of diamond that fell from her ears. "Better slow your roll on the gifts, Prince Charming. If you keep giving me jewelry there'll be guillotine chatter all over the Palace corridors."

"Well, I like to spoil you. And besides, Theo will say what he likes," said Draco, which prompted Hermione to a smile.

At the opposite end of the room, Abraxas glanced in their direction, plucking a glass from a nearby tray and offering them something of a check-in nod. In response, Draco raised his own glass, toasting his grandfather from afar before turning back to Hermione.

"Do me a favor?" he murmured to her. "Slip out for a moment to powder your nose."

Her hand rose instantly to her cheeks. "Have I smudged something again? I really thought I was finally getting the hang of not touching my face so much—"

"No." He laughed, one hand finding its way to her lower back. "Give it five minutes and then meet me in the emerald drawing room."

"Is that the one with the green furniture, or the green walls?"

"Neither. It's blue."

She groaned. "Then _why_—?"

"Hermione." He leaned closer, tucking away a nonexistent curl and brushing the heavy diamond with his thumb. "This will be a very long night. We'll have to amuse ourselves somehow, don't you think?"

Ah, so the prince wanted a cocktail, it seemed. "Now, really?" She delighted in a shiver. "So naughty. I've never understood what it is about being in your grandfather's house that gets you so positively raring."

He chuckled. "Well, in terms of statecraft, it's for the good of the realm. Isn't it?"

She braced a little. Only for a moment.

"Can't argue with that, I suppose," she said, and then stepped toward the corridor, waving away the Palace staff who rushed immediately to her aid before making her excuses to slip out into the hall.

She paused in the gilded bathroom to examine herself, which she was doing altogether too much of lately. The gown for the occasion, punctuated somewhat comically by a colossal ribbon in honor of Abraxas, was white and ironically virginal. Admittedly, there had been amusement in dressing up at first, but less than a year in, clothes were already becoming such a nuisance. It was physically impossible to be stunning at every opportunity, and what woman alive didn't look at pictures of herself and wish she'd been caught at a more flattering angle, or that she could take a blurring tool to the blemish on her chin? Lately Hermione had begun to wonder if she was aging, too; for example, were those the 'fine lines' she'd been hearing so much about? Was she supposed to be using some sort of eye cream?

She'd heard often enough about the crisis that came with turning thirty. Much to her despair, Hermione was gradually discovering that she wasn't wholly immune. Not that she had the usual career concerns or dating woes that lent themselves to any existential crises, but wasn't there such a weighty implication that a woman's thirties were the beginning of her inevitable descent? It was madness, entirely ridiculous and totally unfeminist to even consider that such a thing could be true or that some inherent value could be lost, but it seemed to her that when she wasn't young anymore, she'd have no idea what to actually be.

Aside from a mother, apparently.

"Okay," Draco said when he appeared in the drawing room's doorway, sealing it shut behind him. "Obviously you're not ready for me to make jokes about it."

"Draco, it isn't—"

Hermione trailed off, because as handy as a lie would be in that current moment, she was woefully unsure what sort of lie to even produce. Truthfully no, she was not ready to make jokes about birthing the next heir to the throne; not that Draco had done anything nearly so tasteless, but she still had the distant sensation that she was one of Abraxas' brood mares.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, obviously anguished despite her fragmented attempt at reassurance. "I only meant—"

"I know what you meant." She gave him the broadest smile she could conjure, which unfortunately was not as genuine as it might have been. "I know you're just trying to offer a little levity to the whole thing, it's just…" She fussed with the intricate chignon at the base of her skull, suddenly wishing she'd worn it differently. "Well, it's nothing. Come here," she said, reaching out a hand to him, and he came, albeit grudgingly.

"If you're not ready—"

"I already told you I'm ready, didn't I?"

"Yes, but—"

"Draco," Hermione sighed. "If we wait for me to be ready, we might be waiting a very long time."

Ultimately it had not been a very in-depth conversation. In fairness to him, she didn't actually feel he was the problem at all. The problem, as far as Hermione could tell, was that she didn't know what the problem actually _was_. She supposed she'd been waiting for a moment of clarity, a lightbulb going off. Having asked Pansy how she decided she was ready for motherhood, Pansy had said something along the lines of, "A person cannot be ready for everything, Hermione. It's not a religious calling." When she'd asked Daphne how she'd arrived at the opposite conclusion, Daphne had very unhelpfully said, "I don't need to physically attempt neurosurgery to know I've got neither the desire to try it nor the requisite skills to pull it off."

In the end, it was Helen who'd helped somewhat. They'd chatted on New Years, as they were obviously wont to do, and though Hermione had been very sure she would say nothing aside from the fact that she and Draco were both doing well (intended brevity, in the interest of hearing about Helen and David's trip), she had instead opened the call with, "Did you always know you wanted me?"

"Well, I considered a dog, but… all that grooming," had been Helen's response before realizing her daughter was somewhat gravely serious. "Oh, honey," she sighed. "I thought you'd decided to wait?"

She had, sort of. Until Narcissa and Lucius made somewhat compelling points about the fact that it would have to happen eventually, so why not now?

"I think I was under the impression that I would ease myself into it," Hermione admitted uncomfortably. "But I'm becoming increasingly concerned that I'll only become… resentful of the process if I put it off? And besides, I'm not exactly young anymore."

"Stuff and nonsense," said Helen, which was clearly a phrase she'd picked up from too much time with Hermione's friends, or possibly _Downton Abbey_. "My darling, life is long. You're under no obligation to live it according to anyone else's standards. And I've never known you to be a conformist, personally."

"I thought life was short?" Hermione sighed, falling back against their bed at Sandringham while she stared wistfully at her mother's face on the screen. "That _is_ why you and Dad went on this trip, isn't it?"

"Of course life is short," Helen assured her. "But it is also long. Things can be both."

"But—"

"Producing a desired outcome at a rigorously determined pace is what made you such a magnificent academic," Helen said cheerfully. "Unfortunately, my dear, there are no A-pluses awarded for living your life properly or improperly, and no failing grades, either. You simply do what feels right and hope for the best."

"But what if nothing actually feels right?" Hermione asked, because things had only become egregiously _unclear_ for her. Possibly a result of having too many cooks in the kitchen, but with the kitchen in this case being her uterus, that was an even more discomfiting thought. "I'm going to have to do it someday," she said grudgingly, "so it's best I do it now, isn't it? I'm going to be in my thirties soon… and then who knows how many eggs I'll even have left?" she sighed, to which Helen obviously stifled a laugh.

"Well, I can't say that I know what the qualifications are for motherhood," said Helen with a shrug. "And if your question is did I always know I wanted you, the answer is obviously no." Hermione blinked, and Helen laughed again. "How could I have known what you would be, sweet pea? That you would be cleverer and more passionate and so very unlike me? How could I have known that I would worry about you at every possible moment, or that I would love you so deeply that even my bones would ache? It's not an exam you can prepare for, I'm afraid. There is no knowing. Possibly there is for some," Helen admitted, "but very rarely in life does anyone know what they are meant for until they arrive there. And Hermione, it may be a privilege to be sure about something, but it's really quite stupid to be certain."

Hermione had felt that to be one of those little reflexivities that were so unhelpful. Life is long but also short. It's a privilege to be sure, but also stupid to be certain. She wasn't entirely convinced her mother was making sense, but she felt eased, somewhat, by the prospect that someone could be good at something even if they weren't necessarily prepared for it in advance.

"To this day I have no idea whether someone else might have been better at this than I was, or if I could have done more," Helen admitted. "I think it's really quite impossible to be good at all aspects of being a mother. How can someone be a nurturer, a caregiver, an educator, all for the entirety of a lifetime, from infancy to adulthood? How is it possible to be everything to someone else while also being someone yourself? It's a mystery."

"So then what made you feel ready, assuming you ever were?" Hermione asked, resigning herself to the only question she felt was still relevant.

"Seeing your face," was Helen's reply, which prompted Hermione to sit for thirty minutes in silence after they hung up and then find Draco to tell him: Okay.

Okay, let's try.

He seemed to know that all of this was running through her head again, over a month later. He both understood and didn't understand, which Hermione thought was perfectly fair, even if it was immensely frustrating. How exactly did a man prepare for fatherhood? While Hermione had always imagined life with a partner but given no regard to the reality of children, Draco had spent the first two-thirds of his life knowing he would have an heir but leaving a foggy blank space in the place of its mother. In a lot of ways, Hermione could tell that Draco's mind had inadvertently made a separation between the woman he loved (her) and the woman he might have chosen to mother his children (subsequently also her, but was it? Was it really?).

"I can see you're in a spiral," said Draco, pulling her closer. "I have to say, at this point I'd even be relieved to hear more of your Snape conspiracy theories."

"They're not mine, they're—"

"Harry's, I know. But still, I just hate—"

He broke off, folding his arms around her.

"I hate that no matter what I do, regardless of what I say or don't say, I'm a source of conflict for you," he said quietly. "I hate that you make my life easier consistently, every day, but then when it comes to what I offer you—"

"Ironic, really, coming from a man who routinely gives me diamonds," Hermione said, which she recognized immediately had been her own very failed joke when she caught his flinch. "Oh come on, Draco. You don't honestly think that's all I get from you, is it?"

"Maybe this whole thing has gotten us a bit out of sync," he suggested, cupping her face in his hands. "Five seconds?"

She nodded with relief. "Five seconds."

She expected his kiss to be as tender as his palms on her cheeks, but even she could taste the frustration. The resentment, which, like her own, was not directed at her, but at the unforgiving nature of their circumstances. She kissed him back with a similar intent to vent in silence; to express her dismay at being held to impossible standards.

To any standards, that is, that were not her own.

"If you want," he breathed out slowly, "to change your mind—"

"I don't," she said, her reply as reflexive as his was pensive. "Really, I don't. I think, logically, it's the right decision."

"But if you're not ready—"

"I wasn't ready for any of this, Draco," she confessed to him, being perhaps painfully honest. But it was unavoidable, wasn't it? He'd been ready for marriage before she was, and now here they were again. "If you didn't push me, I might never have moved at all. I think I just need you to…" She hesitated, knowing he wouldn't like it, but still, it had to be said. "I think I need you to just accept that you're pressuring me," she said. "I need you to understand that you have my permission to push me, but it's… still a push." She glanced up at him. "It doesn't mean I resent you. It just means that I need your help."

He turned away for a second. "I'd really rather not think of myself as your taskmaster."

"You're not," she said, guiding his gaze back to hers with a finger below his chin. "You're my partner, aren't you? I'm given to understand there are instances when one of us should take the lead."

"Still, I wish it felt less like I were dragging you," he said.

"Fair." She leaned up on tiptoe, lips brushing his nose. "For what it's worth, it's not that I don't want to have babies with you. I'm really quite curious to see what they'll look like. Undoubtedly perfection," she added, "what with all that divinity in their genes."

His kiss was punctuated with a smile. "You're teasing me."

"Am I?" Hers was slower. "You know I find you rather easy on the eyes."

"Likewise." His thumb brushed over the exposed notches of her vertebrae, running over her like the strings of a cello. "You do look particularly fetching."

"Do I?"

"Mm." He shifted to kiss her shoulder, then the strip of skin between her clavicle and her neck. "Quite."

Blame the cocktail hour, but the tighter his hands gripped her waist, the more her existential meltdown seemed to fade from her mind.

"Then perhaps," she said in his ear, "you ought to fetch."

Luckily Astoria had chosen a floor-length gown with a full, easy-fitting skirt. All the easier for Draco to draw it up Hermione's legs and crook his finger, stroking a knuckle along the outside of her underwear.

"Seems inappropriate timing," he commented. "Given our conversation."

"Not given all the dignitaries in the other room?" she countered with a breathy laugh, making a low sound of encouragement while he shifted his palm against her.

"I'd quite forgotten them, actually. You might be right." He leaned forward, hooking one finger around the handy no-show material. "I suppose if I'm going to persuade you, I ought to do it properly," he remarked, and she gasped when the tips of his fingers ruminated a moment near her slit, more stroking than probing. "Forgive me," he said, his breath heating the column of her throat before he suddenly pulled away.

"What does that m- _Draco_," she panted, reaching for his hand. "You can't be serious—"

He paused to brush his fingers over his lips, half-smiling.

"You know, you really should learn to behave yourself. This is my _grandfather's house_," he commented in mock disapproval, striding out of the room before she could recover the lucidity to kill him.

* * *

It turned out that Draco's idea of "doing things properly" was to take her on a grand tour of their early sexual exploits, beginning with their first time. They were unable to pay a visit to the Hog's Head's toilets, of course, so he improvised, disrupting her morning routine with a kiss to the back of her neck that became a thorough exploration of how they could debauch their bathroom sink. Their second time—or at least, the second memorable time, given the somewhat randy haze of their university years—was slightly easier to arrange. Under the guise of meetings at Buckingham Palace, Draco and Hermione slipped away to the study that was by then nearly empty, its former contents having been moved to their offices at Kensington. Luckily the desk remained, and by the time Draco bent her over it, Hermione conceded he'd been quite right about how a thing ought to be done.

Their trip to Pakistan was a particularly lauded success, both publicly and privately. Diplomacy was easily accomplished (Padma arranged for a speaking engagement that came with an iconic photograph of Hermione doing something other than simply waving), her wardrobe was a particularly smashing success (Astoria had certainly outdone herself with jewel tones), and something about the newness of travel and culture and cuisine was arousing on its own, so that even the divergences from their routine of repetition were still spectacles in some respect.

It occurred to Hermione to wonder if she should question the fact that another month passed with its usual menstrual terrors, but there were other things to think about. For example, the way she looked when she was straddling Draco's thighs.

Travel and work had distracted her somewhat from Harry, too, who'd done precisely what Pansy told him not to do (and which Hermione had obviously encouraged) by contacting Remus Lupin, the lawyer for his godfather.

"He doesn't want money," had been Harry's update on the subject just before she'd left for Pakistan. "Apparently he wanted to warn me about the Dursleys, and to tell me the truth about Snape."

The Dursleys seemed to keep popping up, though Hermione couldn't entirely make sense of the connection. Worse, she kept getting distracted by all the other intrigue. "Snape? Why?" she asked, frowning.

"Snape threatened him," Harry said simply. "He wouldn't specify why or how, exactly, but he told me that after Sirius died, Snape ran him off. Something about preserving the face of the royal family."

That certainly sounded… reasonable, if not likely. After all, they had all but buried Narcissa for years. "So it hadn't been his choice to leave you behind?"

"Most of what he told me was an apology," Harry admitted. "How he'd loved my dad and my godfather and hadn't wanted to leave me behind, but he felt it was best if he went. That I'd be safer in the end with Snape keeping the Dursleys at bay."

"What _is _it with the Dursleys?" Hermione finally said aloud, demanding it of the universe more so than she asked it of Harry specifically.

"Greed?" Harry guessed. "Seems as if they want fame and fortune, just like anyone else."

"Still, that could be handled more easily, couldn't it?" asked Hermione, thinking briefly—despite how much she loathed to do it—of Bellatrix, who to her understanding had been subtly paid off more than once.

"Well, whatever they want from me, I doubt it's a relationship," said Harry with a shrug. "Our press secretary seems to consider it all very Dickensian villainy. Money and notoriety off the backs of a piteous orphan, that sort of thing."

That much certainly became more apparent after March brought with it an excerpt from Rita Skeeter's forthcoming book. Percy had been bracing Draco and Hermione for the possibility that their own pasts might come under scrutiny—Padma, too, was concerned Hermione would be the subject—but instead it was a profile of Vernon Dursley, a down-on-his-luck everyman whose personal tragedy had been his slow ostracization from "decent society."

_Mr and Mrs Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, are proud to say they're perfectly normal, thank you very much_, wrote Rita. _They're the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just don't hold with such nonsense. _

_But of course, how was Petunia Dursley to know that her sister's untimely death would mean their lives would always run parallel to the troublesome nephew who might have been their adopted son? _

"This," Hermione said flatly, "is ridiculous. Harry is their _nephew_. Adopted son or not, of course their lives will always run parallel!"

"Well, lovely to hear from you, Your Highness," said Rita, in her usual bird-song voice of false pleasantry. "Am I to presume that's the only reason you rang, or is there something actually interesting you'd like to contribute?"

"Rita, be serious," said Hermione, adopting her best imitation of Minerva McGonagall mixed with Augusta Longbottom. "Scrimgeour calls for a Brexit extension, Dudley gets a television contract, and then for some reason you decide this is the opportune time to publish Vernon Dursley's nonsensical hints that Lily Potter's death was organized by the royals? Shouldn't responsible journalism require you to run some sort of, I don't know, actually _useful_ story?" Hermione demanded, though as soon as she said it, she set her jaw in frustration. "Never mind. Of course you're running an anti-monarchy story," she corrected herself with a sigh. "You know full well that people will blame the royals when they do nothing politically to intervene."

From the other end was a labored sigh of Skeeterific melodrama. "While I'm sure there could be nothing more titillating than gratuitous coverage of His Majesty's tax-funded philanthropy," said Rita, who was at least not in a mood to make things excessively difficult by feigning incompetence, "I hope you're aware that such things would not entice the average viewer. Though it's very charming you do still think of them as 'they,' isn't it?" she offered in a girlish taunt.

Hermione brushed that observation aside, already sufficiently irritated. "I'm surprised you haven't been talking about why I don't have a baby yet," she grumbled, glancing over the many news headlines that had no problem whatsoever ignoring Brexit in favor of speculating about Hermione's pregnancy with triplets.

To Hermione's surprise, Rita let out a sharp scoff. "This isn't the Tudor court, Hermione. I do have scruples," she said, which in Hermione's opinion was the first thing Rita Skeeter had ever said that actually qualified as news. "A woman's fertility is her own business."

"I… am genuinely shocked," said Hermione. "That's—wow. That's… not that I _have_ fertility problems, but—"

"Well, how wonderful for you," Rita said disinterestedly. "Is there something else you'd like to irrationally accuse me of, Your Highness, or am I free to leave?"

"Rita, I just find it very hard to believe that you actually support Umbridge," Hermione said impatiently, leaning back in her office chair. "You do realize that by legitimizing Vernon Dursley, you're giving a platform to the most unbearable kind of man?"

"Now, is that really fit for print, Hermione?" asked Rita, feigning shock. "If our public knew what the American princess thought of the _average British family_—"

"Oh, stop," groaned Hermione, who could practically hear Rita smirking through the phone. "I think you and I both know that your audience doesn't give a flying fork what I think about politics. Or if they do," she amended, "you could certainly print whatever you liked without bothering to back it up with real quotes."

"True, and nothing you say is remotely interesting. It's nothing but self-righteous morality from you," Rita remarked with a sigh, "which I can assure you sells newspapers about as well as a nunnery sells itself. Honestly, what you lack is Umbridge's _oomph_," she added. "Clipped, short, actionable. 'Taking back control,' 'preserving what needs to be preserved,' 'discouraging progress for progress sake'—"

"It's meaningless rhetoric," Hermione said hotly.

"Yes, exactly!" Rita exclaimed, as if Hermione were finally getting the hang of it. "Everything you say is so substantive and dull, and Scrimgeour's no different with all his waffling about. Meanwhile, the King's primary job is to say nothing at all when he opens his mouth, and look how well he's managing it," she remarked, dripping with whatever toxic sludge Rita was always dripping with. "Almost as if his generations of accumulated wealth have schooled him for it over time."

"You act like the royal family does nothing," Hermione pointed out caustically, "but it still pays your bills, doesn't it?"

"Yes, and it will continue to do so, because not during my lifetime will the monarchy ever be dissolved," Rita assured her cheerfully. "Abraxas will do whatever it takes to preserve his legacy, and as for your husband… Well, Draco is his father's son, isn't he?"

Hermione scoffed. "His father who abdicated, you mean? _That_ father?"

"Unexpected, I'll admit," Rita said, not sounding remotely humbled by the admission. "But all the more reason Prince Draco will do as he's told."

Hermione's mouth tightened. "Honestly, how can you be so callous? Whatever I think of you, you obviously have a considerable platform. People listen to you, so how can you not use that platform to benefit the country you love?"

"Oh, I see, you think loving this country's government is the same as loving this country. How quaint," remarked Rita, which was not remotely an answer to the question.

"I just don't think you understand that the lives you're only too happy to ruin are—"

"Exorbitantly wealthy," said Rita. "Afforded every privilege. Yourself included. Congratulations on your new diamond earrings," she added languidly, and Hermione flinched. "Remind me, what sort of backbreaking labor does your husband do to afford your little luxuries again?"

Hermione set her jaw. "If it's us you hate—"

"I don't hate you, Hermione," Rita said impatiently. "I don't hate you, nor the Prince of Wales, nor the Duke of Grimmauld, nor even that snippy little wife of his. I don't hate them because they are nothing to me, do you understand? They are nothing to me and if I am anything to them or to you, it is what I'm owed. Do you know what real poverty tastes like, Miss Granger? No, I know for a fact you do not," Rita said flatly, "having written a book about your life that so many have rushed to buy, in spite of the fact that your single greatest accomplishment is a chance meeting with a wealthy man. To my knowledge, you're a clever girl with good intentions who married into a family that will do everything in its considerable power to perpetuate a system built on nothing more than the purity of its blood."

Hermione was silent, unsure how to respond.

"But by all means, consider me the enemy," Rita concluded, her voice once again as saccharine sweet as always. "Heaven knows your opinion of me makes no difference, does it? You're Princess and I am not, so I bow to you. Certainly not the other way round."

"Just tell me one thing," Hermione sighed, knowing there was no use getting into an argument with Rita Skeeter, and particularly not one to which she had very little ammunition. "You don't actually want Umbridge as Prime Minister, do you?"

Rita replied with an impatient scoff, itself akin to non-answer. "Does the royal family control my voting rights now too, or is it still just in the business of keeping my hands tied?"

"Your hands are hardly tied," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes. "I wouldn't be on the phone with you now if they were, would I?"

"No, perhaps not, though contrary to your happy ending, most books don't write themselves," Rita said. "May I get back to my work?"

"You know, despite your opinion on the matter, the royal family does not actually have the means to get away with _murder_," Hermione said, glancing down at the Vernon Dursley excerpt with continued exasperation. "If all you're planning to 'expose' is that Lily and James Potter were somehow killed in the interest of preserving Abraxas' reputation—"

"There are more interesting stones to overturn than the tiresome matter of the Potters, my dear. Besides, it doesn't matter what I think, does it?" Rita mellifluously reminded her. "All that matters is what people can believe," she said, and promptly hung up the phone, leaving Hermione to notice the sound of argument from the corridor.

She rose to her feet with a sigh, intending to find Padma and reassure herself once again that there were no unsolved murders that might appear in Rita Skeeter's book, when she nearly collided with Astoria and Percy.

"—not your concern and certainly not your—ah, excellent, Ma'am," said Percy quickly, catching himself when Hermione came into view around the corner. "I was just on my way to speak with you about finalizing the logistics of next week's visit to the Sacred School."

"Oh, yes, that's… that sounds fine," Hermione said, glancing between them with bemusement. Astoria in particular looked uncharacteristically unsettled, her brow unusually furrowed. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, fine, of course. I'll leave the schedule in your office post-haste," Percy said, offering her a starkly awkward bow and then disappearing in the opposite direction.

"Well, that was quite unusual," commented Hermione, staring after him with a frown. "Even for Percy."

"He's quite a stubborn arse, actually," said Astoria in a markedly calm voice. She turned to Hermione with a shrug. "I'd say there's nothing to worry about, but of course what do I know?"

"More than I ever seem to," Hermione reminded her, souring again at the thought of the many things she wished to understand. "Have you ever wondered why Rita Skeeter writes such hateful things about us all the time?"

"Some things don't take a genius," Astoria said, lips pursed. "Nearly all forms of hatred come down to envy."

"Retribution, do you think?" Hermione asked.

"Did King Abraxas personally offend her? I doubt it."

"Narcissa and I did. And Pansy."

"Well, she had that coming," Astoria said without inflection. "And there's no use concerning yourself with it now, is there? You should take it as a promising sign that she's not aiming for you. I'm sure if she had the means, she would."

"It's not me I'm worried about," Hermione admitted, feeling abominably fretful. Pansy would have called it that, anyway, or advised that she tone down her hysterics, but in fairness, Astoria had a point. Rita wouldn't just aim for something blindly, so if there was something else to know about the Dursleys and Snape, or Lupin—

"Let me take a guess," Astoria said, peering with a look of displeasure at Hermione's expression. "You've remembered that having a baby means subjecting your child to the same intensive scrutiny that Rita Skeeter's inflicted on Draco for his entire life? But, of course, rather than deal with your own misgivings on the matter," she posed neutrally, "you're about to ask me if I know any secret information about whether Snape might have covered up a murder on Abraxas' behalf."

"I… no," Hermione said, wounded. "What? Stuff and nonsense."

Astoria gave her a thin smile, directing her back to her office. "Do not lose sight of the bigger picture," she advised as they walked. "This monarchy has stood through far worse than anything Rita Skeeter can possibly throw at it. Much less Gilderoy Lockhart," she added in scoffing undertone. "Just… do some good in the world, Hermione," she suggested, nudging her into her desk chair. "It will serve you better to do what you can than to question what's already been done."

As much as Hermione hated to admit Astoria was entirely correct, there was little room to do otherwise.

"Fine," she said grumpily. "But for the record, it's not invalid for me to wonder whether there's skeletons in the Palace closet."

"Wonder away," Astoria loftily advised. "There are plenty who'd benefit from seeing you distracted."

Another point Astoria. So much for being clever, then.

"You," Hermione grumbled, "have gotten entirely too sensible."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll devolve at any moment," Astoria replied, striding out of the office without so much as a backwards glance.

* * *

"You both look quite flushed," Daphne observed with a wicked smile when Draco and Hermione materialized in the Nott townhouse sitting room. "The honeymoon isn't quite over, then, I take it?"

"Sorry we're late," Draco supplied, kissing her on the cheek without so much as an attempt to hide his look of self-satisfaction. "We were… a bit tied up."

"Lovely save, very subtle," murmured Hermione, elbowing him in disapproval as Theo stepped in from the other room.

"Try to leave the details out," Theo advised, having clearly overheard them from wherever he'd been digging up aperitifs. "Blaise is here, and you know how unhealthily he loves them."

"I'll have you know there's nothing untoward about my interest in any of your sex lives," Blaise said, appearing in the wake of Theo's stride. Unlike Theo, who wore a crewneck and jeans, Blaise was in full turtleneck mode with a tartan blazer, looking about as British as cream tea. "You know I only want both teams to have fun."

"_Stop_," Hermione said, exasperated.

"It's your own fault for turning us away from the bedchamber," said Theo, lamenting softly, "Alas, were this a merrier court and Draco our lusty Dauphin—"

"Okay, now even I want you to stop," said Draco.

From Hermione: "Oh, so nothing before now was remotely disconcerting?"

From Draco, with a shrug: "Experience demands an exceptionally high bar for nonsense."

From Daphne, with a roll of her eyes: "Well, everyone's here now, at least. We thought Pansy and Harry were going to join us—"

Theo's helpful contribution: "But then something-something children, something-something something old family secrets—"

Hermione, bewildered: "What?"

From Blaise, with a sidelong glance at Theo: "Just the former. The something-something children bit."

Theo, smoothly: "Well pardon me for craving a little intrigue. Have you not got any family secrets to amuse us with?"

Blaise: "Only the usual ones."

Theo: "Pity."

From Prince Lucius (the dog): a heavy sigh.

Hermione: "Out of curiosity, do I have the least amount of family secrets?"

Blaise: "Not at all, New Tracey. We await the forbidden knowledge of David's skincare routine with bated breath."

Daphne, tugging Hermione onto the sofa with a sigh: "I think, unfortunately, all of us have something revolting lying around somewhere. Nott's got incest in there for sure—"

Theo, opting for an armchair: "Oh, without a doubt."

Daphne: "—and I'm nearly positive I've got the usual ones kicking around in the cupboards."

Blaise, brightening: "Usury?"

Daphne: "At very least."

Hermione, fighting a laugh: "Seems like a leap, doesn't it?"

Draco, taking the sofa's edge beside her: "Not at all. Wealth generally begets wealth, doesn't it? Which is usually begotten by predatory business practices. Though it could be worse, seeing as Pansy clearly has murder in her veins."

Hermione: "Does she actually?"

Blaise: "Well, certainly don't make her recount her lineage formally—"

From everyone: a groan.

Blaise: "—but a woman who's been noble since nobility began surely belongs to a line who killed to stay there."

Hermione, with a sigh: "Well, all of this is very reassuring, thank you."

Theo, thoughtfully: "I'm loath to consider it, but in terms of the sins of the father, Harry may actually be the cleanest among us. Aside from Cali, that is."

Daphne: "Assuming Helen's not from a line of assassins."

Hermione, rolling her eyes: "My mother, the dentist? Doubtful."

Daphne, with a shrug: "I made a promise never to underestimate her and I find it keeps life interesting."

Draco, reaching behind him for a glass of something: "What about Neville?"

Blaise, with a shake of his head: "Treason in the fifteenth century. At least four related beheadings."

Draco, sympathetically: "Ah, well, everyone had a bit of trouble with the Plantagenets."

Hermione, curiously: "Where is Neville, by the way?"

Blaise: "Minus five for the usual reasons—"

Hermione, sighing: "Noted."

Blaise: "—and as I believe I've now mentioned several times, he's dating someone else, per my request."

Theo: "Has it actually upgraded to dating, then?"

Blaise: a shrug.

Daphne, with a frown: "I hadn't heard anything, and you'd think it'd be news, wouldn't you? Handled in a colossally revolting way, obviously, given how poorly his grandmother took it, but still, news. It's not every day that the Longbottom heir gets disinherited" (here a theatrical tone) "and takes a _lover_."

Blaise, drily: "Yes, well, ironically this particular inamorato is a secret."

Hermione, astonished: "Not by Neville's choice, surely? After everything?"

Draco, knowingly: "Unless he expects it not to last. It can't be very serious, can it?"

Blaise, tutting softly: "Your implications are dearly appreciated, sweet prince, ten points, but I've made it very clear he's not to sit around and wait around for me. No, the matter of privacy is by request of the other party, I believe. So as to avoid undue scrutiny."

Hermione, recognizing that particular verbiage: "Oh, well we all know what that means, don't we? It's a celebrity. Or a royal."

Draco, with a groan: "And I had _just_ begun recovering from my long period of remorse—"

Hermione, with a kiss: "Hush. You have to admit, it makes me especially eagle-eyed when it comes to secret relationships."

Blaise, waving a hand: "Yes, yes, ten points to New Tracey for the sophistication of her scandal palette—"

From Hermione: a seated half-curtsy.

Blaise: "—but as I said, I have no interest in pursuing a relationship of any kind, Neville or otherwise. We are friends, which is more than enough, and anyway, there's enough happily ever after in the room without my contributions."

Daphne, lamenting: "True, we're very dull that way—"

Blaise: "Conventional and heteronormative, yes, which as a rule I avoid."

Daphne: "—but you do have such a tendency to self-sabotage, Blaise. Probably given the family secrets?"

Blaise: "Oh, we're back there, are we? Five for closing the loop, Greengrass, though I cannot stress this enough: I have no idea how many of her husbands my mother actually killed."

Draco, to Theo: "Didn't we try to narrow this down once? I think the score was two plausible murders, one reckless endangerment, one accidental poisoning, one probably intentional poisoning that could also have been manslaughter—"

Blaise: "And then of course there's my father, who I'm sure she considers her greatest failure."

Hermione, surprised: "In what way?"

Blaise, blithely: "In that he's still alive, of course."

Daphne, with a wink at Theo: "An understandable complaint. What good is a husband if you don't get to eventually mourn him?"

Hermione: "This is all very normal, you guys, thanks."

In unison: "You're welcome."

At precisely that moment, Hermione's phone buzzed in her purse. She looked down at the message from Pansy and glanced up to catch Draco's curious glance.

"Something from the office?"

"No, just Pansy wanting to have breakfast." Hermione added it to her public calendar with a note to Padma and Astoria. "Sorry, what were we saying?"

"I shall have such a lovely gown made for when I inevitably outlive you," Daphne murmured affectionately to Theo.

"Right," said Hermione with a contented sigh, letting Draco tuck her under one arm as Theo rose to his feet only to bend down and kiss his wife. "That."

* * *

Curiosity was truly morbid when it came to the comments on their Twitter feed. There were times Hermione waded in just to see, only to then feel immediately sickened. _THE ROYALS KILLED THE POTTERS_, was a new favorite thing to bring up ever since Vernon Dursley's profile, usually followed by _SUBSCRIBE TO MY PODCAST! I EXPOSE LIBERALS EVERY DAY!_

As for her own dismalities, Hermione was becoming slightly more numb to any criticism of her appearance, though it came up often. For every account dedicated solely to posting pictures of her wardrobe or her face, there were threads of vitriol against her. She was classless, too common, too American. Her clothes were classic/dowdy, her sartorial statements were meaningful/insufficient, her personality was warm/bland. She drove away her staff and Draco's family, his former friends. She was spoiled, wealthy, a strain on British taxpayers, too eager to open her mouth, so obviously hungry for fame. She was fake, jealous, elitist. Her lifestyle was a waste and so was she.

Even support of Abraxas was partially unsavory. _ENGLAND IS FOR THE ENGLISH _wasn't exactly the best portrayal of monarchist fidelity, but it seemed to dominate the conversation.

Worst of all was venturing into the politics of her home country. Bagman would get skewered in an undoctored clip and yet, somehow, the comments would be criticism for the journalists, the media themselves, those who'd had the audacity to question him on something so inconceivably irrelevant as the details of his job. Bagman had successfully weaponized the same frustration felt by the Vernon Dursleys of the world; the sense that the universe was no longer bending to their wishes and everyone else was at fault. It felt irreparable, the rift between the rational and irrational, the compassionate and the isolationists… it seemed the impressionable many were being irretrievably influenced by the privileged few.

Negativity was everywhere. Toxicity was rampant. Nothing was exempt from belligerent derision, no opinion without a devil's advocate, no ounce of expression without disdain. _I don't understand this and therefore I reject it! _was the translation of nearly every comment ever made about anything, and worse, anyone who tried to defend themselves nearly always made it worse. Immigration. A universal minimum income. Global emissions targets. _Ghostbusters_ with a female cast. A princess who was also an American; a woman born without royal blood. _This threatens my view of the world and therefore it must be wrong! _

"I'm supposed to bring a baby into this?" Hermione demanded aloud.

She hadn't really meant to say it, though once Draco looked up beside her, she couldn't prevent herself from continuing the conversation she'd begun inside her head. She turned to face him, absorbing everything about him: the reading glasses he wore on the edge of his nose. The rumpled t-shirt. The look on his face, which told Hermione that he'd clearly expected this to be the conversation all along.

"Is this really the life you want for your son or daughter?" she asked him, finding that what she'd hoped to be a simple question was somehow sensationalist and imploring. It felt like some insistent, nagging thing at the back of her mind had somehow made its way to her throat, lodging there until she couldn't swallow or breathe or think for discomfort.

Draco marked his place in his book and set it beside him on the nightstand, turning to her.

"Which part?" he said.

"All of it," Hermione grumbled, though she could tell an actual answer was owed. "Okay, fine. You've been aware your whole life that you'll be king, right?" she prompted, and he nodded. "At what point did you realize that about half your country didn't actually agree with you?"

He gave her a small laugh. "Probably around the same time, if I'm being honest."

"Your father and grandfather were always stressed about it, weren't they?"

"Yes, definitely."

"So you… must have absorbed that."

He shifted uncomfortably, not quite meeting her eye. "Did I?"

"Of course you did," Hermione sighed, propping her cheek up with one hand. "Draco, you've always shouldered everyone's expectations for you. To the point where sometimes even I don't know what you actually think."

He was quiet for a moment. In his silence, she wondered if maybe it had been Rita Skeeter who'd put this in her head, or maybe not. Maybe this was what had been bothering her since motherhood was first on the table. Maybe she was part of a generation who seemed to collectively feel conscious of the fact that the world did not want them at all, and she was only now beginning to ask herself why.

"Say we have a son," she said slowly. "Say we have a son who has every right in the world to be good-natured and kind and happy, but then he starts to understand that the press is waiting, at every given moment, to take advantage of his every error. He'll grow up like you, constantly scrutinized. He'll have to learn right away not to trust the people who try to get too close. What kind of lesson is that for a child? And if he falls in love," she said, her stomach rapidly twisting, "he will either do it like Lucius, at risk to his own heart, or he'll do it like you, where it almost drives them apart."

She paused, hoping to stop there, but concern spurred her on. "That's assuming he can love in a way that's _acceptable_ to your family, and I'm not even talking about marrying the right kind of girl. What if he's gay, bisexual, asexual? What if he's trans? Is he going to be born into a world that accepts him for who he is? And where will you stand if they don't?"

"Hermione," Draco said, but she wasn't finished.

"Are you prepared to bring a human being into this world who has no choice but to do as he's told?" she asked him bluntly. "And tell me the truth, Draco, do you even think it's worth it? Is what you do for this country, the smiles and the waves and the appearances and the diplomacy, is that worth all the years we couldn't be together? Or the possibility that we might not have been together at all?"

"Hermione—"

"If I'm going to be a mother, I want to believe I'm giving my child freedom," Hermione said impatiently. "To be exactly what they are. I want to believe that I have the means to offer them the best of the world, and I don't mean money. I don't mean tax-funded wealth, I don't mean palaces, I don't mean private schools or boarding schools, I mean real freedom. Love. Tenderness. A voice."

She stopped to look at him again; the boy whose mother was kept from him, the son whose father was so afraid of him.

Long live the heir to the throne.

"It's a baby, Draco, not a legacy," Hermione eventually said, resigning herself to the consequence of having finally put words to her misgivings. "We're not supposed to tell them they're only permitted to grow into the mold we've set for them, or what right do we have to claim that we love them at all?"

There was something of a dull silence between them after that, and Hermione sighed deeply, reaching out to cup her hand around Draco's cheek. She had a feeling she was supposed to say something else—something reassuring—though she wasn't entirely sure what. She opened her mouth, wishing she'd thought about literally any of this before dealing her husband the blow of her resistance.

"It's not that I don't want t-"

"Can you give me five seconds?" he asked quietly. "Just five seconds."

She stopped, biting back whatever empty excuse for comfort remained.

Then she nodded and slithered closer, letting him fold her into his arms. She had the sense that this little window of intimacy was less about putting off bad news and more about being given the chance to think, but whatever the cause, she was grateful. It was a chance to syncopate the beat of her heart with his.

"What if it didn't have to be that way?" he asked her, murmuring it in her ear. One of his hands was tracing the blade of her shoulder, tender and listless. "What if we were… something else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, say I was… I don't know. An English teacher. And you were a lawyer. And we met at university, dated for a few years, lived together, got married like normal people. Say we'd been married a year and I said 'sweetheart'—" Here he tipped her chin up, playing the role he described. "Sweetheart, I want a baby." He kissed her lightly, eyes staying briefly shut before opening to find hers. "What then?"

"In that scenario, you mean?"

He nodded.

"Well, I—"

Her brain went foggy with visions of things, of nothing. Little Teddy and his tiny individual toes. Jamie and her constant questions. She thought of how much Jamie looked like Harry and imagined all the bits of Draco she might be able to see in miniature: the solemn eyes or the elegant chin or that contemplative look he always got when he was thinking. All the little regalities that made him what he was. But then she remembered that in this case, possibly there would be more of his other qualities: his smile and his laughter, the competitive flash in his eyes whenever Harry challenged him to something stupid, the maniacal codes he shared with Theo. She supposed that whatever sort of baby they made, it was likely to get good things from him: diplomacy and ambition, conscientiousness and drive. Draco was bright and clever and thoughtful and he valued those traits in others. It wasn't very hard to imagine that the best of whatever they had to offer would almost certainly come from him.

And what would she give, then? Stubbornness, probably. She pictured a little know-it-all like her, bossy and bookish. A little too much while also being, somehow, not enough.

In imagining her child as a version of what she'd once been, Hermione found herself suddenly affectionate towards her prior self. Sure, she was stubborn, but it had always been out of compassion. She cared deeply, and wouldn't she want a child who did the same? It was so unfashionable to care, such a thankless rarity in a world of ambivalence. If she could do it all over, she wouldn't tell herself to be any different, just as she certainly wouldn't try to make her daughter change.

The moment she thought it, the idea took shape in her mind. It wasn't the switch she'd been waiting for—it wasn't off and then suddenly on—but it was something of a slow-building realization. Helen was right: she wouldn't just be the mother of an infant, some amorphous thing dependent on her to survive. She would at first, obviously, but then she'd be the mother of someone just learning how to share, how to defend themselves, how to find humor in everyday things. She'd be the mother of a person just discovering history or mythology or science, with all the curiosity she'd once had. She'd be the mother of someone athletic, most likely, or she'd be the mother saying it was alright if they weren't an athlete, she wasn't either and look how she'd turned out? She'd be the mother of a teenager crying over a broken heart and she'd say don't worry, it's not the end of the world, and they'd say Mom (no, _Mum_) what do you even know and she'd look up at Draco and think my god, how very far we've come.

Draco seemed to know she was in the midst of something vivid and difficult to put into words, so he didn't ask her to finish her sentence.

"What if every day, we made our decisions based on that?" he asked, as if he had sliced open her brain and looked into a piece of it, viewing her thoughts through a kaleidoscope. "Of course it won't be easy. And of course we can't know yet what those decisions will be. But what if every time we were given a decision, we set the parameters to 'will this make our child happy,' or at the very least, 'will this be enough to give them the freedom to choose'?"

"You're asking me… if that changes things?" Hermione asked, puzzled. "Because of course it does, but how real is that possibility?"

"As real as we make it," Draco said. "As real as me telling you now that I don't want to be the kind of father mine was, or the kind my grandfather was, either. As real as me saying that I love you enough to protect this love, to fight for it. And enough to promise you that my love for whatever kid we have will be the same."

"You make it sound easy," Hermione sighed. "But what if one day that decision calls for something that puts your crown at risk?"

"Then I risk it," Draco said, shrugging. "Believe it or not, Hermione, the worst thing I can imagine happening has nothing to do with the throne and everything to do with my future with you."

He reached for her hand, matching the tips of his fingers to hers.

"If you still want to wait," he began, but she cut him off with a kiss. Maybe it wasn't much, but somehow, he'd still said everything she needed to hear.

"I mean it this time," she said, hands meandering down to find more enthusiasm than she'd expected. "Really?" she asked with a startled laugh, brushing the tip of his surprisingly acquisitive cock. "This is what arouses you?"

"I happen to like marital candor," he said. "That, or I'm very attracted to my wife."

"I had no idea your kinks included emotional vulnerability. Is that somewhere on the masochism spectrum? Should I recount for you a list of my life's regrets?"

"Stop," he faux-groaned. "I'm already so hard."

She rolled over him, shaking her head, and allowed him to grip her hips with the promise of further intimacy.

"Okay," she said definitively, and he looked up.

"Okay?"

She nodded. "Okay. But only because it's you." Only because she believed him when he said things. And only because she wanted more of him in the world, particularly if it was half-hers. Even if she had to make it for them herself.

"Was there a chance it'd be someone else?" he asked, amused.

"Unfortunately no," she said. "I think, per usual, it's only ever you. Much as that always seems to complicate things."

"Ah. Well," he said, hands roaming up the lengths of her thighs, "shall we make them simpler?"

"No games?" she teased him. "No role play, no gimmicks, no nostalgic pursuits?"

"Not tonight." His kiss was slow and deep, his hands rising to clutch tightly at her curls. "I just want you," he said, and while there was nothing extraordinary about sex that night (aside from requiring barely any foreplay, which wasn't typically the case but it seemed they both had the same intimacy kinks) it was memorable. Possibly even unforgettable.

It was nice to know some things—like him for her and her for him, no matter what, no matter how daunting—would always, however inconveniently, be true.

* * *

I'd like to say it happened that night. How nice would that be, to be able to tell my future child (or to very politely not tell them, since unlike my mother, I don't need to traumatize them for life) that they were conceived the very day I finally gave in and decided they were what I truly wanted?

But I guess like most things in my life, some things will just have to be worth the wait.

* * *

_**a/n: **__For posterity's sake, let me say that a story about the troubling nature of politics and the pressures of public scrutiny felt like a much more compelling subject before a pandemic arrived to remind us who in this world is truly privileged and who is not. In all likelihood, Draco and Hermione would be isolating in their palace without any fear of lost income, job security, or unpreventable exposure. Public scrutiny or not, it's difficult to care about that subset of society right now, and while this story is (and has always been) about humanizing this group of characters, it does present a somewhat hazy line between reality and fiction. This storyverse is currently less an escape than it has been in the past—now it feels, to me, slightly tone-deaf. _

_That being said, I will do my best to continue with weekly updates, but if I do have to go on any sort of hiatus—or if I choose to focus on the non-royal subplots despite what that might do to the story's narrative cohesion—please understand that these are not normal circumstances. I promise I will not abandon this. However, I will ask for your patience just in case, because with the world as it is, I'm finding myself with the unfortunate realization that if I had known this would happen, this is not the project I would have chosen to focus my time. I am genuinely concerned that I'm currently too cynical to write it, and I worry that if I stay that way, the story will lose what exists of its humor, its humanity, or its charm._

_Regardless, thank you for being here! I appreciate those of you who are following along and I hope I'm wrong about my suspicions that I'm providing you with extremely subpar work; or at least, wrong enough that what I'm giving you provides some form of whatever escape you're craving. I hope you're all doing well, and please know my thoughts are with you._


	7. Quit Before the Quarrel Breaks

**Chapter 7: Quit Before the Quarrel Breaks**

_**DAILY PROPHET**_  
_** ProphetOnline**_

_Hermione Granger's heartache! As feud with the Duchess of Grimmauld intensifies, the lonely Princess reveals estrangement from the Royal Family in the wake of infertility fears_  
_—Royal meltdown! Why the Princess of Wales 'can't bear' to see anyone; sources confirm private torment as honeymoon with Prince Draco comes to an end_  
_—'STAY OUT OF OUR LIVES,' says tearful Princess Hermione to pregnant Duchess Pansy. The truth behind the latest Royal Feud!_

_9:25 AM - 12 Jun 2019_  
_**1.3K** Retweets **85K **Likes_

_** anon23 **replying to ** ProphetOnline**_

_pansy pregnant again? istg all this woman does is have babies_

_9:29 AM - 12 Jun 2019_  
_**2** Retweets **12 **Likes_

_** Lav5298 **replying to ** ProphetOnline**_

_makes sense why draco's got eyes for astoria again…_

_9:32 AM - 12 Jun 2019_  
_**0** Retweets **23 **Likes_

_** TheBaytoBuckingham **replying to ** ProphetOnline**_

_everyone needs to leave poor hermione alone! everyone knows she is NOT feuding with duchess pansy!_

_9:38 AM - 12 Jun 2019_  
_**32** Retweets **86 **Likes_

_** malfoysroyal2 **replying to ** ProphetOnline**_

_both beautiful royal women #NoComparisons_

_9:39 AM - 12 Jun 2019_  
_**3** Retweets **28 **Likes_

_** lockhartwasright **replying to ** ProphetOnline**_

_guess who will inherit if there are no babies lmao. TOO BAD KILLING THE POTTERS DIDN'T WORK! #CHAMBEROFSECRETS_

_9:56 AM - 12 Jun 2019_  
_**7** Retweets **99 **Likes_

Where to start? With the fact that Pansy's not actually pregnant, I guess. I probably don't have to specify that the Daily Prophet is as full of bollockery as it usually is, but… it's fun to know that at least one thing here isn't true, or half-true.

Do you ever notice a new word and suddenly see it everywhere, all the time, inescapably? That's what the last few months have been like for me, only the word isn't a word at all. Instead it's a framed photograph on the desk of the Swedish ambassador. It's a staffer complaining of nausea while sporting a sudden, rosier glow. It's the sound of crying in the park or gurgles of laughter or a beloved children's author speaking effusively about her greatest joy, and then it's a sudden, desperate need to think about it all hours while simultaneously shoving the thoughts away, watching pots that never boil.

I'm lucky, of course. I understand this about myself, that I am luckier than most people will ever come close to being. Look at how many people admire me, even worship me, as if the shine of my chemically treated hair says something about my morality or my worth! I haven't forgotten my goals or my desire for philanthropy or the love that I already have in my life, which I even know is exceptional. I have more in my life than most people ever get, much less deserve.

But ever since the discovery that something out there might exist for me that I hadn't considered, it feels increasingly like a distant break on the horizon. As if, just out of reach, there's something that only I have learned to see.

* * *

_28 April 2019  
The Grimmauld Townhouse, London, England_

Hermione had assumed that Pansy's request to meet for breakfast was a relatively normal one. Needless to say, she was wrong. Upon arrival at Grimmauld Place, Hermione prepared to disembark for a casual visit with Harry and the children only to find Pansy stepping ruthlessly into the car that Hermione had every intention to step out of. Pansy, ever a vision of dignity, half-shoved Hermione back inside before carefully arranging herself in the seat.

"Um," said Hermione, "what?"

"The Leaky Cauldron, please," said Pansy to Hermione's driver, naming a place Hermione had not heard of and certainly had not expected to go.

"Pans, what are y-"

"Did you or did you not agree to breakfast?" asked Pansy, turning to glance at her. She seemed perfectly normal, but that was the trouble with Pansy. She almost always did.

"You want to go out?" Hermione said, frowning. "I didn't arrange any security."

"I hardly think it counts as out," said Pansy, briefly eyeing her folded hands. "But if you're so very concerned I'll have our offices send someone."

"Pans—"

"Shall we?" prompted Pansy.

There was never much use in fighting her, so Hermione conceded with a sigh. It wasn't a very long drive, and Pansy did not speak at all, which was not especially comforting.

"Pans, are you sure you don't want t-"

"Oh good, we're here. Come on, then."

Hermione's driver opened the door and Pansy stepped out with her usual faultless grace, Hermione grudgingly following in her wake.

_Pansy's being odd_, she texted Draco, hanging back for a moment to type. _Maybe today's the day she finally decides to throw me in the Thames_, she added before shoving her phone back in her purse.

"Lovely," commented Pansy, ostensibly about the cafe they were about to enter, which was small and cramped and deeply unlovely on the whole. "Here, shall we?" she prompted in a voice that was not entirely a question, and Hermione nodded, allowing Pansy to lead her to the back of the room. Neither Pansy nor Hermione were dressed in any notable way, though even if they had been identifiable at a glance, it wouldn't have mattered. Only one person sat in the cafe under an old houndstooth coat, and whoever it was, they did not immediately look up from their cup of tea.

"What are you feeling this morning?" Pansy asked Hermione too-brightly. "Sweet, savory?"

A waitress stood beside their table, waiting. "Ah… eggs benedict?" said Hermione, taking the seat that left her facing the wall. Probably best, though she noticed Pansy had intentionally chosen the one facing the cafe's handful of empty tables.

"Two, please," said Pansy, who had once referred to Hollandaise as a fool's errand. "And a coffee for my friend, please. I'll have an Earl Grey."

"No milk or sugar, thank you," added Hermione before the waitress nodded and disappeared, leaving Hermione to stare alone at Pansy for what she hoped would be an explanation.

No such luck. Instead, Pansy was fixated quite closely on her cup of tea. Hermione raised her coffee to her lips and glanced over her shoulder again, inspecting the room for any evidence of what might have brought them there.

The only other person in the cafe—the one in the old coat—turned out somewhat unsurprisingly to be a man, who looked neither terribly old nor especially young. He had a haggard sort of look to him; one scar dove through his sandy-colored brows with another through the cleft of his chin, and his hair was almost entirely grey at the temples. He looked up several times after their arrival, albeit not at Hermione. He was looking at Pansy, who in turn removed a small white envelope from her purse, setting it on the table beside them.

"So," said Pansy to Hermione. "How is everything?"

"Good?" said Hermione.

The waitress returned with two plates of eggs benedict, which were largely undecorated. Not that Hermione still suspected they'd gone there for the food, but it was nice to safely rule that out.

"Wonderful," said Pansy, who looked down at her breakfast without touching it.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at the man again, who was now staring openly at the white envelope beside Pansy's cup of tea. He scratched idly at his cheeks, looking from Pansy to the envelope and back again. Pansy did not respond.

"So, how are the kids doing?" asked Hermione, and to her surprise, Pansy's eyes abruptly went vicious.

"Not now," she warned in a low voice. Her hands curled tightly, and then she flicked a glance at the man in the cafe, whom Hermione was now positive was the actual reason they'd come. (She'd taken a bite of her eggs benedict by then. It was… fine.)

With a sharp motion the man rose to his feet, approaching their table.

"No," he said to Pansy.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Pansy.

"No," he said. "I… I don't want it. Whatever it is."

Pansy's expression didn't change. "Do I know you?"

"I think you do," the man said. "And this isn't why I've come here."

"I don't know why you're here or who you are," Pansy replied crisply, "nor do I care to discuss it right now. In the event we may meet at some future time, I'm sure I'll be pleased to hear all about it at length. But of course that may not be necessary," she added pointedly, eyes dropping to the envelope, "given how very easily we could both get what we want."

Hermione fixed her attention on her slightly too-runny poached egg while the man's mouth tightened.

"You can't be serious," he said.

Pansy lifted her tea to her lips without looking up.

"I don't want this," he said.

Pansy glanced at Hermione. "Remind me, are your parents still in Australia?" she asked, knocking the envelope to the floor. Both Hermione and the man were unable to prevent their eyes from following it.

"Um," said Hermione, and then slowly, gently, the man bent to the ground, retrieving the envelope and placing it carefully on the table.

"I know you mean well," said the man in a soft voice, though Pansy still declined to look at him. "I know you're trying to protect him, so I won't tell him about this. But I wish you would give me a chance."

"Or have they moved onto New Zealand by now?" Pansy asked Hermione with a tone of superficial politeness. Pansy already knew, of course, that Hermione's parents were currently in France, having gone on at length just the other evening about which aspects of French culture to vehemently deny.

"I don't want your money," the man said. "I promise you, it's nothing to do with money. He's like a son to me, I swear to you, I love him like he's my own, and I would never cause your family any harm—"

"Do not," said Pansy, "speak of my family to me."

She hadn't raised her voice, but Hermione could see the man was visibly unsettled.

He withdrew a few bills from his pocket, throwing them down on the table beside his own empty plate. "Enjoy your breakfast," he said to Pansy. "I look forward to meeting you this afternoon."

Then he was gone, and Hermione faced Pansy with a sigh.

"So this is what you and Harry were too busy fighting about to come to Theo and Daphne's dinner last night, is it?" she asked impatiently, wondering whether Draco had known more about their absence than he let on. "Was that Lupin?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Pansy, who was still not looking at the envelope on the table. "Whatever gave you the impression I knew him?"

"Pansy, for fork's sake," said Hermione with a roll of her eyes. "It's just the two of us now, so I think you can cut the act. And what on earth was the point of dragging me along?"

"Oh, were you _dragged_, Hermione? How deeply unpleasant for you."

"Okay," Hermione sighed, "now you're just being intentionally difficult—"

"That looks dreadful," Pansy said, eyeing Hermione's breakfast. "Perhaps we ought to go somewhere else, don't you think?"

"Pansy—"

Hermione shot to her feet, grabbing Pansy's hand to prevent her from standing. "Why won't you just give him a chance? You know it's what Harry wants."

"Yes, and true to form, Harry isn't thinking clearly," said Pansy.

"Thinking clearly about what? He deserves to know what happened—"

"At the expense of our children's well-being? Absolutely not," snapped Pansy, and Hermione, jarred a little by the force of Pansy's outburst, grudgingly released her. "If it were only Harry, fine. It's his prerogative if he chooses to open his life to a man who already abandoned him once. If he can stand to suffer it again, so be it, it's not my place to intervene." _Lies_, thought Hermione with a sigh. Pansy was clearly intervening for precisely that. "But I'm supposed to expose my children to a man like that? Absolutely not."

"Oh, Pans, it's perfectly fine to worry," offered Hermione sympathetically, though the glance Pansy offered in return was anything but appreciative. "I understand you're protective of Harry, but it's not as if he'd ever let someone into Jamie and Teddy's lives irresponsibly—"

"You always do this." Pansy's mouth was a thin, vitriolic line. "You're just so very morally upstanding, aren't you? Making Harry's problems yours, encouraging him to be reckless, and of course you couldn't _possibly_ be wrong—"

"What's so reckless about meeting his old tutor?" demanded Hermione, and then gave a heavy sigh. "Is this because of the rumors about his godfather or something? Because honestly, Pansy, it's 2019—"

"You think I give a damn about his sexuality?" Pansy cut in, openly hostile now. "Have I ever in my life treated anyone poorly for that? Give me some credit, Hermione."

"Then what's your problem? That he's poor? Lower class?" Even Hermione could hear the mocking tone in her voice, but she couldn't prevent it. "Jesus, we all know you're a snob, Pans, but at a certain point it's just too much," she said, plucking the envelope from the table and tossing it in front of Pansy's plate. "Did you really think you could just pay him to disappear?"

Pansy's lips were a thin, white line. "That's what I am to you?"

"What?"

"That's really all you think of me?" Pansy's knuckles, too, were noticeably white. "After all these years, after everything, that's all the credit you'll give me?"

Hermione bristled. "I'm not sure what other conclusion I'm supposed to come to, given what I just saw, but you're welcome to explain it to m-"

"You realize Jamie doesn't have Harry's eyes—she has _Lily's_ eyes," hissed Pansy, cutting her off. "Do you know that every picture taken of my daughter winds up on the internet for anyone to see? That for every person who idolizes her like some sort of symbol for their own consumption, there's another person juxtaposing my daughter's image with the face of a woman who's tragically dead?"

It was clear Hermione had crossed a line somehow, but she wasn't seeing it. "People will say whatever they want on the internet, Pans, you know that—"

"My children's lives are filled with ghosts," Pansy said. "My husband's, too. Their lives aren't their own, they've never been. I can't keep them out of the spotlight entirely, fine, but the narrative I give them is mine. You think I don't remember the way Harry used to stare at the pictures of his parents, trying to live up to a standard he could never possibly reach?"

Hermione, of course, couldn't answer. She didn't know.

"James and Lily Potter are branded in this country's myths. They will never disappear," Pansy said angrily, "and their legacy is compromised. Don't you realize how often Abraxas is blamed for their deaths, or Lucius? Their public mystique is martyrdom, and behind it is the shadow of the royals. What do you think Lupin is going to tell Harry, hm? That he left because _your_ family paid him off," she snapped in answer, "and then what do you think that's going to do to his relationship with Draco? Either Lupin left because he's a person who leaves," she said darkly, "or he left because something in his past was dangerous enough to force him out, and either way, I can't imagine being foolish enough to let him back in."

"Well, if that's your concern, Pans, that's valid," said Hermione impatiently, "but this… closure or whatever, these answers, that's obviously important to Harry. So claiming you're trying to protect your children is—"

"I _am_ protecting my children, Hermione. Which is something you can't possibly understand."

Pansy dropped her gaze to her cup and Hermione felt a lurch, suddenly legless.

"What does that mean?"

"You know what it means," Pansy said, turning her head away. "You don't have children. It's very simple."

"No, Pansy, it sounds like more than that." Hermione stared at her, and gradually, Pansy's eyes made their way back to hers. "Are you suggesting I'm not cut out to be a mother? Just because I'm taking Harry's side on this?"

"I didn't say that."

"You're not saying much."

Pansy's mouth tightened. "Why should I say anything, Hermione? You seem intent on misinterpreting every word that comes out of my mouth."

"Why even bring me here?" Hermione demanded. "You could have done this alone. Or with Blaise, or someone else, if I'm so terribly incapable of understanding."

This time, when Pansy's eyes met hers, they were liquid with something new.

"Open it." Pansy tossed the envelope to Hermione.

"What?"

"Open it," Pansy repeated irritably, and Hermione bit back something harsh about how they weren't in school anymore. They were adults now, and adults shouldn't behave like this. It was a simple matter of communicating, which Pansy had always been shit at—

Shirts, Hermione thought angrily, _shirts_ at, and then she tore open the envelope, sliding out a blank check.

No, not a blank check.

Just… a blank piece of paper.

She frowned at it. "What were y-"

"I wanted you to be right," said Pansy. "But that didn't mean I wasn't going to try things my way, just to be sure. Just to be absolutely certain I was wrong."

"But—"

Hermione looked up, staring at her. "So you wanted me here because…?"

Pansy's look in response was impossibly burdened.

"If you don't know that by now," she said, "I don't know why I ever bothered," and then she placed a few crisp bills onto the table for their breakfast, walking without a word to the door.

* * *

Rumors about a feud between them were everywhere within a week. "This is nonsense," said Astoria, scrolling through her feed with a shake of her head. "What on earth would give anyone the impression you and Pansy were fighting about _babies_, of all things?"

Silently, Hermione reminded herself not to have arguments in places like cafes, where presumably underpaid waitresses were all too happy to feed Rita Skeeter with rumors.

"It's ridiculous," she said with a shrug. "Just ignore it."

"Now you're getting the hang of it," said Padma, entering just as Hermione spoke. "'Never complain, never explain.' It's cross-stitched on the walls somewhere."

Padma was only being supportive, of course, but for whatever reason Hermione couldn't bear it. "So you think I'm part of the Firm now too, I take it?" she asked.

Given the exchange of glances between Padma and Astoria, she'd done it a touch too venomously.

"We're only teasing," said Padma, brushing it aside. "And anyway, I come bearing good news."

"The fifth dentist caved and now they're all recommending Trident?" grumbled Hermione.

"Excellent reference, but not quite." Padma pulled something up on her iPad, sending it over to Hermione. "Your anniversary schedule, courtesy of Snape."

"_Snape_ planned my anniversary?" asked Hermione, making a face, and Padma laughed.

"No, but Draco asked him to block out some of your schedules. Percy and I've already made sure not to arrange anything on the day, of course," Padma assured her, "but I thought it might cheer you up to make it official."

"Do I seem like I need cheering?" asked Hermione, opening the invitation from Padma. The square that now read 'busy' on May 18th sat atop a pre-shaded portion of her private calendar labeled _Fertility Window_.

"Of course not," said Padma, who was nearly successful at sounding lighthearted and unconcerned while she lied. "I'm just going to get back to work on your speech for tomorrow, so just ping me if you need anything," she said, slipping enthusiastically out of the office.

Hermione turned to find Astoria's brow arched and sighed.

"Alright," she said. "So I'm not in the best mood."

"Wouldn't dream of noticing," Astoria replied. "Though, advise me: should I wait for a better day before asking you a favor, or should I just get it out of the way?"

"A favor? You never ask favors," said Hermione, leaning back in her chair with a rush of pleasure. Silly as it was, the idea of Astoria asking _her_ for something instead of the other way around came with a flood of guilt-flavored relief. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, it's not me, exactly." Astoria cleared her throat, then rose to her feet, shutting the door to Hermione's office. "It's… about Percy."

"Oh?" That was unexpected, though Hermione recalled that she had come across them arguing not very long ago. "Is everything alright?"

"Well…" Astoria smoothed her dress self-consciously, still standing beside the door. "Did you know that Percy has a son?"

Hermione blinked. "What?"

"A son," Astoria repeated. "From a previous marriage."

"Wait, what?"

"Yes, I know," said Astoria ambiguously. "In any case, circumstances have changed for him, and though he won't admit it, he needs childcare."

"What?"

"Somewhere he can take Will during the day, after school. You know how long Percy's hours can be. Anyway, he doesn't want to bring it up to Snape for allegedly 'obvious' reasons, though I quite disagree—"

"Will?" Hermione echoed faintly.

"I just think he'll lose what relationship he does have with his son if he doesn't find a way to make this work," said Astoria. "It's… challenged, to say the least, between them. And I'm sure he would have told you sooner if he didn't feel it would reflect poorly on him in some professional capacity, which of course I told him was ridiculous—"

"His son?"

"He doesn't know I'm speaking to you about it," Astoria concluded. "But personally, I don't think he was giving you near enough credit."

Percy had a son. _Percy_ had a _son_. For whatever reason, Hermione could not work out in her mind why this piece of information was so incredibly frustrating. "Why wouldn't he mention it to us before?"

"Well, Snape knows—"

"Of course _Snape_ knows," Hermione muttered to herself, "but why not us?"

"A matter of pride? I think," said Astoria with a shrug. "You know how men are."

"I don't, actually, but I'll take your word for it," said Hermione, which she belatedly realized might have been taken with some offense. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's nothing," said Astoria, brushing Hermione's fumbled apology away. "The point is, I hoped you might be able to make something work in a way that allows him to… well, not to have to ask it." She gave Hermione a slightly pleading look. "It would mean a lot to him."

"And does that mean a lot to you?" asked Hermione.

Astoria's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry?"

Perhaps she'd sounded too suspicious. "Nothing, I just—" Forks almighty, what was wrong with her? Just an off day, hopefully. "I wasn't expecting your favor to be about Percy, that's all."

"Oh. Well, I feel quite badly for him. Will, I mean," Astoria clarified. "He seems lonely to me, and I know how that—"

She inhaled sharply.

"It's just a bit sad," she said. "So if I can do something for him, I'd like to."

Hermione suddenly realized how confident Astoria had been in her belief that she, Hermione, would be supportive of the idea. Astoria had been sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that Hermione would help, and why shouldn't she be? Every moment that Hermione sat here being irritable or unhelpful in her ongoing confusion was clearly a waste of both their time.

"Of course we can do something," Hermione said quickly. "Why shouldn't we have some sort of childcare set up for our offices? You might need it yourself soon enough," she added, and was she… fishing or something? She caught herself holding her breath for Astoria's answer, which was a sharp, loud laugh.

"No, not me. Certainly not anytime soon," said Astoria firmly, as if even the concept of pregnancy was positively ludicrous.

"You and Alex don't want children?" asked Hermione.

"He does, but—" She shrugged. "I'm not especially interested in the idea at the moment."

"Neither was I," Hermione pointed out. "You might change your mind."

"I… maybe. Someday." Astoria sounded doubtful, and Hermione was inexplicably relieved. Perhaps she hoped it would ground her a little, having Astoria's sensible, non-feverish presence around. "But it would certainly be a bonus for your staff if it were offered," Astoria finished, and to that, Hermione had sufficient rationality left in the tank to agree.

Ultimately it was easy to arrange, and her subsequent conversation with Percy even easier. She simply informed him they were thinking of providing daily childcare and would he be interested in such a thing, to which he said yes he would be interested with only a faint hint of reticence.

As he turned to leave, though, Hermione said, "You know, I can't say I've ever pictured you as a father."

The moment the words left her mouth, she understood the rigidity in her spine and the crackling in her brain and the feeling like something had gone horribly wrong despite not being able to put a finger on what it was.

_Are you saying I'm not cut out to be a mother?_

"It doesn't come easily to me," Percy admitted. "I don't think I'm very good at it. But his mother intends to leave the country with her new husband, and my son… Well, I don't think it's a good environment for him. It's a bit of a shock, which leaves me with little choice but to try my best, even if my best is… not immediately impressive."

It was a fairly Percy answer in that it was bare-faced and literal to the point of slightly discomfiting them both. Hermione regretted immensely that she had said anything to begin with.

"I'm sure you're doing fine," she said kindly, or what she hoped was kindly, and Percy offered her a lackluster smile.

"I'm not," he said. "But perhaps I will be."

In his absence, Hermione turned to her screen, noting the fertility windows on her calendar and quickly exiting out of it. She had decided to tell Astoria—and _only_ Astoria—that she would be needing certain things, like ovulation tests and prenatal vitamins. Of everyone in her office—of everyone in her _life_—it felt like something no one else could know. The idea of them watching her stomach, her drinks, asking her how it was going, whether she was trying… it was all so overwhelming she wanted to scream, but Astoria was soothing. She was understanding and reasonable, and best of all, she had no vested interest in the outcome, nor any desire to bond over it. She was carefully distant and therefore Hermione could pretend that she was distant, too. That it didn't matter, because it wasn't as if she was completely certain it was what she wanted anyway.

True, her recent conversation with Draco had changed things. She had awoken to the idea like she'd straightened up from sleepwalking, suddenly finding herself awkwardly mid-stride. Obviously it was a process she'd already started four… no, nearly five months ago, but only now did things feel purposeful. Only now did things feel ever so slightly different.

Which did not discount from the fact that Hermione liked her life _sublimely_ as it was. She loved her husband and was enjoying her time with him, so what reason would there be to worry? Or to rush? It wouldn't be the end of the world if it took a while, or took longer than a while, or if maybe five months were already five different versions of failure.

It wasn't pressing. It wasn't urgent. And perhaps if she convinced herself of that, then nobody, especially not Percy Weasley, would ever have to know the things Hermione sometimes craved when she allowed herself to close her eyes.

* * *

"Harry tells me he hasn't heard from you in a while," commented Draco, slipping his shirt over his shoulders before sliding into bed with her. Hermione had the feeling he was trying to broach the subject gently, and suppressed a bit of laughter at how unsubtly he was managing it. "What are you snickering at?"

"I'm not snickering, first of all," Hermione said. "And secondly, you can just ask me why I'm avoiding Pansy, since we both know that's what you mean."

"Hm? Are you?" asked Draco, failing incredibly at nonchalance, and Hermione sighed.

"I just feel like I need to stay out of whatever's going on with them right now," she said. "You know, the Lupin stuff and all that." She shrugged, and Draco turned on his side to face her. "It just seems like it's none of my business."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think I've ever heard you say that before," Draco said with a chuckle, and Hermione groaned, turning away. "No, no," he said, coaxing her back to him. "Stop, I'm just having a laugh, I'm sorry. You know I think it's one of your loveliest qualities."

"What, my nosiness?"

"Your compassion," he corrected her. "Your… I don't know, your effort. Most people don't care the way you do."

"Nosily, you mean."

He gave her a crooked half-smile. "Shall I just shut up, then?"

"No." She made a face. "Sorry. I'm in a weird mood."

"I wasn't sure I should say anything. Everything alright?"

"I mean—" She shrugged. "I'm not like, _thrilled_ with Pansy."

"Since she kidnapped you, you mean?"

"Yeah." For obvious reasons, she'd left the details out.

"Well, for what it's worth, I'm sure even Pansy would admit your instincts were ultimately good," Draco assured her. "Harry says he hasn't introduced Lupin to the kids yet, but he and Pansy are getting on well. He's—" Draco hesitated. "Well, Lupin is the only one Harry's got left."

"He has Pansy. And you," Hermione said. "It's not like he's been alone until now."

"Of course not," Draco agreed. "But I think… possibly he'd like to get your thoughts on it."

"Possibly?" Hermione echoed, and Draco chuckled again.

"He would," he said. "I know he would. There's things he won't tell me; things he'll never tell me." He rolled onto his back, staring briefly at the ceiling. "I think in Harry's mind I'll always be my father's son first, or a prince first. So as much as I wish he understood how I actually felt, I know he… won't," he concluded. "It's just… he can't. Not with me."

It was a familiar problem, both their affection and their rivalry. "I understand," Hermione said, reaching over to run her fingers along the tension in his jaw. "I'll talk to him."

She turned Draco's face towards her and he smiled, gratefully kissing her fingers. "Thank you."

"So you don't mind anymore if Harry confides in me?" she asked with a teasing glance.

"I like to think I've grown as a person," Draco replied, pulling her on top of him and muffling his laughter with a kiss to the pulse in her chest.

She ran her fingers through his hair and closed her eyes, letting him work his way down lower, to her stomach, down the line of her abdomen until he was pushing her upright. He slipped one shoulder at a time between her legs until she was braced against the headboard of their bed, his mouth lingering between her thighs.

"Draco," she murmured. "We don't have to do this tonight."

His voice was gruff where his lips were pressed to her underwear. "Hm?"

"It's just… you know. We should probably…" She took a breath in, fertility charts and ovulation cycles darting into her brain, and then let it out, disintegrating them on her tongue. "Tomorrow is, you know, when I start, um. Well, it's just—"

He reached up with both hands, drawing the material of her underwear above her hips until it strained. A very distracting hint of friction lingered from the motion of the fabric, back and forth, before she was met with his lips, and then his tongue. She tightened her fingers in his hair and exhaled shakily, letting the heightening sense of tension climb its way up her spine.

He found all her spots so easily, the places he could make her melt and moan. Sex for them was like higher education, a more finessed dissertation every time. The idea that it could ever get boring seemed laughable, absurd. That was like saying ecstasy itself got boring, or that the peril of lingering so close to bliss could ever somehow disappoint. They didn't get tired of sex after marriage; they simply got better at it, devoted scholars that they were.

He withdrew only after she came, shoving him away, the sensations so overripe and sensitive that another brush of his mouth would sting her. She collapsed onto her back, panting, and he slid her underwear down her legs, grey eyes on hers.

"Fuck the charts," he said, voice heady with something, with wanting, and she shivered, stifling another groan when he brushed her with his fingers. "It's you," he said. "You. I want you."

She was going to come again, and quickly. Like always, she wanted to slow it down and speed it up all at once. To savor it in haste, impatient with the torment of pleasure.

Sex had always come easily for them. How could it be this good and not… work?

"What are you thinking about?" Draco asked, pausing a moment to scrutinize her expression.

"Nothing," she whispered, and pulled him closer, burying her face in his skin.

* * *

It took some weeks for Hermione to get around to her promise to Draco about speaking with Harry, which in her defense was for good reason. For one thing, her anniversary was her primary concern. They'd agreed not to make a terribly big fuss about it—neither of them had been much for anniversaries prior to marriage and Hermione had grown increasingly conscious of how often people listed the prices of her jewelry online—but their "staycation" holiday meant shutting off their phones, luxuriating in post-coital naps and lavish baths, and leaving Percy to handle the onslaught of online attention (his post, which he signed from Draco and Hermione, was surprisingly sentimental, so Hermione assumed Padma had written it). Abraxas' staff had also released a statement congratulating Draco and Hermione on their first anniversary, which was probably undertaken in the hopes that the chatter about Gilderoy Lockhart and Rita Skeeter's forthcoming books would be buried beneath a wave of royalist support. He wasn't entirely right about that, nor entirely wrong.

"This is what I mean when I say the monarchy does more than it appears to," Draco murmured to Hermione, gesturing to the way they were greeted by enormous crowds during the philanthropic appearance immediately preceding their anniversary. It wasn't the first time they'd been met with crowds like that, but the adoration was particularly staggering. People were actually _blessing_ her, and their marriage, as if Hermione were not only a princess, but a saint.

"I thought it was just about the persistence of your leisured class?" teased Hermione.

"Well, that's certainly the brand," Draco assured her drily. "Tragically for the Skeeters and Lockharts of the world, there is no underwriting the soft power of royalty."

Draco may have been unconcerned, but the Palace clearly reserved its right to panic, perhaps because chatter surrounding the books suggested a very strong marketing campaign. In particular, the peculiar but menacing hashtag #ChamberOfSecrets suggested Gilderoy Lockhart was doing slightly better (his social media tagline, "The Chamber Has Been Opened," was admittedly very spicy), though Rita Skeeter's secrecy was so closely guarded that conjecture about the _lack_ of marketing was intense enough on its own.

Surprisingly, Rita had not written about Hermione or Draco in close to a month, though she must have passed off her playbook to someone else in her department. There was no shortage of speculation as to when, if ever, the palace would report a new heir on the way; if anything, coverage that _wasn't_ by Rita had become vastly more aggressive.

"I've always been under the impression that the right price could make this sort of thing go away," commented Blaise, who was another reason Hermione had not yet reached out to Harry. A small thing, but the afternoon she'd said she'd do it was the same day Blaise had popped by on his way back from a meeting, so obviously she was going to have to push things off yet again. "I could talk to Neville about it, if you wanted."

"I think it's best to ignore it," Hermione said with a sigh. "Though the timing does seem odd, given everything."

"Such as…?"

"Well, these books. Which are mysteriously _not_ about the royal family, and yet—" She waved a hand. "Anyway, let's not discuss it. Did you need something from me?"

"Minus two for the presumption," said Blaise, looking wounded. "Can't I simply stop by for a little hello?"

"You could," Hermione said, "but _are_ you?"

"Well, if you must know, I received a very interesting phone call today from—"

"Quick question," said Percy, popping his head into Hermione's office from the corridor. "I know we said another week on the—" He dropped his voice, mouthing, "childcare situation," before returning to a normal volume, "but given the, er, state of things—"

"What's this about children?" demanded a voice.

"Oh no," said Hermione. "No, no—"

"In my experience," said Hortense, materializing in the doorway, "all it takes is a steady hand and an expert parry. Plus the occasional shot of rum."

"I believe you're thinking of piracy," said Thibaut, once again at her side.

"Nonsense, I've already _committed_ to that," said Hortense. "We've surpassed the stage of merely _thinking_, Thibaut—"

"Or vastly undershot it," mumbled Hermione to herself.

"—though your clairvoyance is improving," she assured him, conscientiously fluffing her small veil made of ferns.

"What's _that_?" came an additional voice, and a look of panic rippled out over Percy's features.

"Will, if you could just give me a moment—"

"Don't call me that!"

"Fine, William, if you could just sit h- oh no, please, not now—"

"Ah, Peeves, you noisy old ghost," said Thibaut. "Not to alarm you, but there's what I believe to be a small neanderthal running loose throughout the corridors. Now, as for the issue of imminent cannons—"

"Canon?" asked Hermione.

"Nonsense, there's none of that here," said Thibaut.

"William! William, please don't—"

"Hello," said Blaise to Percy, catching his eye while Percy attempted—presumably, though he was more than half-out of the office's eyeline—to wrangle his son. "You seem to be in need of some assistance," Blaise remarked to him, neither funnily nor unfunnily.

"Oh, hello again," said Percy, who already looked as if he'd aged ten years in the span of five minutes. "I'm terribly sorry, I'm just, er, having a bit of—"

"You must be William," said Blaise, as the elfin form of the boy belonging to the juvenile voice materialized suddenly in the frame. "I'm Blaise."

Hermione's curiosity got the better of her; she stared at the boy, Will, and pondered his resemblance to Percy in silence while Blaise rose to his feet, striding jauntily over to him the way only Blaise could do.

"Tell me William, are you a sporting man or a bookish man?"

Will looked blankly up at him.

"Not a gaming man, I hope," said Blaise. "Terribly bad for the financials."

Will said nothing, though he also stopped attempting whatever conceivable property damage had attracted his attention earlier.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of if it's books," Blaise continued. "The Prince of Wales himself is a dweeb of epic proportions."

"What?" asked Will, incredulous.

"Of course, if you're a cultured sort of man there's always the arts," said Blaise. "Plus Thibaut here is an instrumental theologian."

"Is he?" asked Hermione and Will in unison.

"In one of his lives, yes," said Blaise.

From Thibaut: "Three of them, if Hortense is to be believed—"

From Hermione: "Which, to be clear, she isn't."

From Will, suspiciously: "How can he have had more than one?"

From Blaise: "I suppose we could ask him."

Hermione: "Is that safe to do?"

"NOT IN THE LEAST!" trumpeted Hortense. "I was a Nobel laureate when I met him and now look what I've become."

Hermione: "Aren't you siblings?"

Hortense: "Only in this form."

Will, entranced: "What?"

Thibaut: "How did we get here? Oh yes, canon—"

Blaise: "Cannons?"

Thibaut: "No, the Vatican is involved."

Hermione, sighing: "What does that m-"

"Hush," said Blaise to Hermione, which was probably the right call. "Anyway, I'm sure we could find out. If that's alright with your dad, of course," he added to Will, who stiffened.

Blaise then glanced up at Percy, who gave him a look of such incredible gratitude it was remarkable he hadn't fallen to his knees.

"Of course, he probably _shouldn't_ agree, given that I am a stranger and these two are highly dangerous," added Blaise knowingly, prompting Percy with an audible nudge. "On the run from the law, in fact."

"Are we?" Thibaut asked Hortense privately.

"I'd have to consult the grimoire," said Hortense to Thibaut, frowning.

"Yes, I'm not so sure about this," said Percy, who was at least quick enough to join Blaise's double act of reverse-psychology. "I'm not sure it would be approp-"

"PLEASE," erupted Will.

"—well, if you promise to behave," said Percy, mustering a half-convincing sternness. "And I mustn't hear of anything too dangerous or I'll have t-"

"I'll behave, Dad, promise," Will said earnestly, and though Hermione couldn't see what was at all compelling about conversation with Thibaut, she figured it would be warranted for a small boy. After all, it did not take much convincing to believe Thibaut either owned or was a vampire. Sometimes even she believed it.

"Well, off we go, then, before your dad changes his mind," said Blaise, striding out of the room with a last glance at Percy. Hermione, who could only see Percy's look of relief in response, wondered what sort of exchange had passed between them on Blaise's end before suddenly recalling that he'd been in the middle of saying something earlier.

"Wait, Blaise," she called after him, shouting over the sound of Thibaut's commentary to Will about what seemed to be the JFK assassination or the Spanish Flu. "What were you going to say about a phone call?"

"Hm? Oh, it's nothing," he said. "Just that Old Tracey rang to ask if she could see me," he called over his shoulder before being promptly tugged away.

"I… _what_?" Hermione demanded of empty air, rising to her feet somewhat pointlessly as Blaise had already disappeared into the corridor. "What did y- ah, he's gone," she sighed to herself, glancing with confusion at Percy. "Sorry, Percy, were you waiting for something?"

He seemed a bit flustered, understandably, but leapt at the chance to return to the subject of work, which was at least something he never lost sight of. Hermione made a mental note to comment on that later.

"Well, truthfully, there's been a bit of a… hiccup," Percy said.

"A hiccup?"

"Perhaps a bit more than a hiccup," he admitted. "Though, thankfully, not on our end."

He stepped into her office with his iPad outstretched.

"What is it?" asked Hermione, accepting the screen from him and glancing down.

"Well, it appears the Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart bidding war has unexpectedly become a sprint to publication," he said, and glanced over his shoulder at the vacant door frame as Hermione scrolled. "I don't have to worry, do I?" he asked, more to himself than her. "I know he's your friend, but I suppose I haven't really gotten to know him all that well—"

"I'd hardly call Thibaut a friend," said Hermione, who was only half-listening. Ironically or not, it seemed Gilderoy Lockhart's Chamber of Secrets was not so much opened as it was unceremoniously leaked. Within hours of the manuscript appearing for free online, the Rita Skeeter camp had pushed their initial publication date by a week for a proper, dignified release, which seemed… well, highly suspicious. Though, good for her, Hermione thought for a moment before immediately doubling back and re-thinking her priorities.

"Oh, sorry, not him," said Percy. "I meant—"

"I don't understand," Hermione said, frowning at the book titles. THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS by Gilderoy Lockhart was unsurprising given his oh-so-subtle marketing, but Rita Skeeter's title—DEATH EATERS: HOW THE ROYALS NEVER DIE—was quite a new one. "What exactly is the subject of this book?"

"Oh. Well. I haven't read it yet," Percy admitted. "I wanted you to know as soon as it was released, and then… well, my son—"

"Right, of course." Understandable. "Has Snape read it?"

"I'm almost positive he's reading it right now. Shall I summon him for you? I'm sure he can summarize whatever he's managed to get through so far—"

"No. No, I can wait. Or…" She trailed off, then glanced up. "I'd like to read it myself, actually."

"I," began Percy, before pausing. "Are—" Another halt. "Are you sure?"

At precisely that moment, Astoria bustled into the room, nearly colliding with Percy.

"Oh, sor- oh. Sorry."

Intriguing, Hermione thought, that Astoria hadn't looked directly at him before hastily averting her glance, and in fact seemed to be apologizing for two entirely separate things.

"Hermione," said Astoria, clearing her throat. "This… this Skeeter book, I don't think you should—"

"Hi, one second, Astoria—yes, I'd like to read it," Hermione said to Percy. "Can you get a copy for me, please?"

Percy nodded. "His Highness has already asked for one as well."

Unsurprising. It seemed her evening with Draco would be spent on a spontaneous book club. "The sooner the better, Percy, thank you."

"Of course." He was out the door without hesitation, though he doubled back to offer her another remorseful glance. "As for… well, as for my lack of professionalism," he said, wincing, "I understand completely if you no longer feel I can be trusted to—"

"Percy, don't be ridiculous. Go get the book," said Hermione.

"Right, yes, thank you, Ma'am," he said, and was out the door again, leaving Astoria to shake her head at Hermione.

"You really shouldn't," she said, expressionless. Possibly she was exasperated, but for Astoria, that typically came without expression.

"Why," replied Hermione without looking up, "is there something you expect to find in Rita Skeeter's book that I do not?"

"Of course not," Astoria said placidly. "But I strongly doubt it's what you need right now either way."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning…" Astoria sighed. "Why don't you call my sister?" she suggested, her voice a touch too soothe-and-distract. "She mentioned she hasn't heard from you much lately."

Hermione kept her eyes on her desk. "I just spoke with her this morning." Daphne had sent a photo of a dress and Hermione had sent back a set of heart eyes.

"Hermione." Astoria's voice was initially stern, but then she softened. "You realize you can't keep hiding from everyone."

"I'm not," she said. "You noticed Blaise was here, didn't you?"

"Fine, allow me to be more specific. You can't hide from Pansy, Daphne, or your mother," Astoria said. "Or Draco's mother, either."

"I'm not hiding."

"What are you so afraid they're going to tell you?" Astoria prompted. "That this is normal? That things occasionally take time? It can't come as news to _you_, a woman who waited half a decade to marry her husband," she remarked drily, "that people don't generally get what they want precisely when they want it."

"I'm nearly thirty," Hermione said stiffly, still shifting through the files on her desk. "Do you know when a woman's peak fertility is?"

"Yes. Early to mid-twenties," said Astoria matter-of-factly. "So?"

"So, clearly I passed that," said Hermione, intending to be similarly deadpanned before confessing with a sigh, "I don't even know what I was doing during those years."

"You were becoming the person you are now," Astoria said, referencing Hermione with a glance. "You were learning how to be in love with your husband, how to exist in his world. How to make a place for yourself in it. Does that mean nothing to you anymore?"

"No." Of course not. "But—"

"You can't live inside this fear, Hermione," Astoria warned, which was precisely what Hermione didn't want to hear.

Couldn't anyone understand that she didn't want to be cheered up? She didn't want to be reassured. She wasn't _afraid_—she certainly wasn't paralyzed by it—but she was reasonably and legitimately concerned, like any other normal person who understood the fundamental realities of biology and statistics. She didn't need the cult of femininity to tell her that this was normal, or that everyone went through it. Was it so unjust for her to want to steep for a while in her own thoughts, her own emotions? _If it's meant to be it'll happen_, they would tell her—and of course they would, because what else was there to say?

This was one area of her life where she didn't want anyone to say anything at all.

"Hermione." This time Astoria looked a bit helpless, which was fair. It wasn't remotely the area of her life she was currently in, which was precisely why Hermione still felt willing to confide in her. "I just wish you wouldn't—"

"Here," said Percy, looking as if he'd sprinted in from Surrey. "Here. Sorry." He coughed into his elbow, still panting. "Sorry it took a bit, and I'll have Lockhart's for you shortly—"

"No need for that," said Hermione, accepting the book from him and frowning. "Wait, this says the Ottoman Empire—"

"Sorry, sorry, just didn't want anyone to see I was holding it." He fumbled, backpedaling, to strip the jacket away, revealing the glossy cover.

It was strange to see the Malfoy royal crest rearranged with the snake so prominent, a skull outfitted in the center. Rita's team had taken the regal symbol and made it sinister, filling Hermione's chest with distant apprehension.

"_How the Royals Never Die_," Hermione read aloud.

"I should warn you," said Percy quickly, "nothing in here is substantiated by anyone on our team. She had no consultation with anyone in the Palace—"

"Don't worry, Percy, I'm familiar with Rita's methods," Hermione assured him, rolling her eyes and falling into her chair, peering over the inside cover. "That's all for this afternoon, I think. I'm sure Snape will need you for something."

"I'm—" Percy hesitated, glancing at Astoria. "If it's possible to just… to speak with you privately for just a moment—"

Astoria slid into the hall without a word, leaving Hermione to glance expectantly at Percy.

"My son," he said once the door had closed behind Astoria. "I wasn't… I never anticipated it would come to this. And I would never have asked—"

"Please, Percy, it's fine." This, too, Hermione had no interest in discussing. "Emergencies happen."

"I had thought I'd come up with something, but his school hours are a challenge and this afternoon in particular it seems that he… well, he _bit_ a student, which—not that you need to know that, of course," Percy said, horrified with himself. "I just… I'm at a bit of a loss, and all things considered I know I ought to have been more prepared, and… and I _will_ be, just as soon as—"

"Percy." Hermione looked up with a flaring of irritation. "Do you somehow think I can't be understanding of your situation?"

"No. No, of course not." He looked mortified. She could see the sheen of cool sweat across his forehead and sighed.

"You're indispensable to this office," she reminded him. "We couldn't get on without you, believe me."

"I appreciate that, Ma'am, but in terms of my behavior—"

"Percy, there's more to life than this office," she said, hoping it would end there.

He must have known his time with her had expired. He nodded, backstepping politely.

"Thank you," he said. "Door closed?"

"Yes, please." Finally. Within seconds he was gone, the latch clicking in his absence.

On her desk, Hermione's phone buzzed with a message. She glanced at the screen and grimaced before tossing it away, leaving Rita's name to fade to black.

_Enjoy the book, Your Royal Highness_.

* * *

Hermione stepped out of the car to find someone else brushing past her in the doorway.

"Oh, I—hello," said the man from the cafe, bowing to her once he realized who she was. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness—"

"Ah, Hermione," said Harry, who must have been seeing his guest to the door at the precise moment she'd arrived. "This is Remus, a friend of my father's."

"Lovely to meet you," she said, without mentioning: _Yes, I've read all about you, Remus Lupin_.

Lupin gave her a nod, another bow. He seemed relatively practiced with royalty, and it occurred to Hermione he must have been. After all, he had worked in a noble household.

After he departed, Hermione turned to Harry in the foyer. "Why was he here?" she asked in an undertone. "I thought you were keeping him away from Jamie and Teddy."

"I am, in a sense. He's been introduced briefly as my former tutor, but outside of that they certainly don't interact with him yet… Why?" he asked on second thought, frowning at her.

"Yet?" Hermione echoed.

"Well, Jamie's old enough to have a tutor a couple of hours a week," said Harry, shrugging. "It'd be more for things like music and language and such, but she'll be four soon, and—"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" said Hermione.

Harry blinked at her, and then glanced down at the Ottoman Empire cover in her hand.

"Ah, right, I'd heard the book came out today," he said, and beckoned her into his study. "Come on, let's chat."

Hermione heard a rustle at the top of the stairs, followed by the sound of distant stiletto heels that faded as she and Harry walked in the opposite direction.

"So," Harry said, nudging out a chair for her. "What's it say? That he's a murderer, I'm guessing."

"You're guessing?" asked Hermione.

Harry shrugged, falling into his own chair. "We believe what we want to believe," he said, leaning his head back. "After all, I doubt he's the only one implicated poorly."

No, he wasn't. Not at all.

Needless to say, Rita Skeeter's book had not been remotely what Hermione thought it would be. True, the majority of it was gossip with a bit of social commentary peppered in, but the whole thing read like a thriller, from the pages revealing Severus Snape and Lily Evans Potter's humble backgrounds to the recounting of a mysterious misfortune that befell three dashing young men who'd attended Eton College. The fourth, a young well-born but unremarkable (and, damningly in Rita's eyes, pudgy, unlike the handsomer, taller, more strapping and intellectually exceptional three) young man had been Peter Pettigrew, whose death—an irresponsible fall from a great and possibly intoxicated height—had been ruled an accident. It was the Bad Lads, but with the additional facet of suspected murder. None of Harry's father's generation had escaped without scrutiny.

According to Rita Skeeter, Severus Snape (a "trusted confidant" to the former Prince of Wales and now "indispensable advisor" to the current one) was an eyewitness who claimed to have seen someone, one of the three "Marauders," as she called them, kill Peter Pettigrew. James Potter and Sirius Black, both noble for generations and undoubtedly present during the time of Pettigrew's death, were quietly investigated, as was the least outgoing of the three: Remus Lupin. Snape's comments on the night of the murder had been sealed and later destroyed. Many people believed he had named Black as the killer that evening; however, when rumors began circulating about Pettigrew's death, Snape's tune had allegedly changed. Now, according to Rita Skeeter, Snape was blaming Lupin, the Marauder with the least social capital—_almost as if he had been instructed to do so_, she wrote, giddily overjoyed.

Had it been merely he-said-he-said between Snape and Lupin, Rita's opinion was that class would have nullified the outcome: both Snape and Lupin were receiving financial assistance. Both came from undesirable backgrounds. Both were clever but in some sense off-putting; not exactly Eton men. Perhaps both would have been removed from the school and that would have been the end of it. But the addition of Potter and especially Black, whose cousins Narcissa and Bellatrix were by then both circling the young Prince Lucius, meant that loss of life was far less important than the names involved in any formal investigation. Ultimately, all five records were sealed and expunged, Pettigrew's death formally ruled an accident and forgotten.

The very great mystery, in Rita's mind, was what happened afterwards to each of the five. Famously, Lily Evans would go on to marry James Potter, but what was so terribly enticing within the construct of the story was the fact that Lily and Severus Snape, childhood friends and longtime sweethearts, had broken up disastrously right around the time of the accusation. Here the Dursleys came into play: Lily had tearfully confessed to her sister Petunia that Severus had done _something unforgivable_, and shortly after he had ended up in the employ of the house of Malfoy.

Why? Because everything, according to Rita Skeeter, came back to keeping the royal family's hands clean. Sirius Black and James Potter, both implicated, had died mysteriously, of course, with Lily Potter famously an antithesis to all things blue blooded. Rita's conclusion was that these three deaths—four, including Pettigrew's—suggested a larger, more sinister trend: that however many individual lives were lost, the aristocracy, and the monarchy, lived on untouched.

But that was Rita's take on the situation, and historically, Rita had proven time and time again her ultimate goal was to bring Abraxas and his family to his knees. Hermione read it through vastly different eyes; namely, academic ones. That Lupin had been named was no surprise, particularly after Rita's investigation. Many, many people were quick to point out that there was something very off about Lupin, and his school records revealed evidence of a psychological diagnosis that had later been "lost." In Hermione's mind, it made more sense for Sirius Black and James Potter to protect Remus Lupin, who seemed to have benefitted purely by having powerful friends. She also questioned why the people Lupin loved most—Pettigrew, Black, and Potter—all subsequently met untimely deaths.

But of course Harry would never see it that way. After all, his parents were of such critical importance to his perception of himself that he could never possibly admit to their faults.

"You can't honestly tell me you're ready to rule Lucius and Abraxas out of this," said Harry, whose voice was carefully light. "Snape paid Lupin to leave when Sirius died. We know this—and you've already said you don't trust Snape."

"I said I don't _like_ him, which is entirely different. And anyway, why exactly would he do that?" Hermione shot back. "Just to protect Draco's image? Sorry, but I don't believe that, Harry."

"You don't?" scoffed Harry, a flicker of unpleasantness momentarily coming over his face. "Really, you don't believe it? Come on, Hermione. What else have they been willing to do, hm? What else have you been witness to?"

"I—" Rita Skeeter's kidnapping. Narcissa's imprisonment, her forced estrangement from her son. Hermione shook away the easy answers, insisting, "I know them, Harry. They're privileged, yes, and of course they try to control their narrative, but they're not _monsters_—"

"And Lupin is?"

"I'm not saying he is or he isn't, Harry, I just don't think you should be so quick to trust him—"

"So you're taking Snape's word, then? After everything you've said about him?"

"Oh please, I've never thought he was a…" She broke off. "Forget it. Harry, I'm just saying—"

"It's because Draco trusts him, isn't it?" Harry said irritably. "Once again, you can't stand the idea that Draco might be wrong."

"That's ridiculous, and don't make this about Draco—"

"Fine, then let's make it about you. Did you come here to tell me to stay away from Remus," snapped Harry, "or did you come here to fight with me so you wouldn't have to acknowledge the truth about the family you married into?"

"What does that mean?"

"It means you read a book about the skeletons in your husband's closet and your first instinct was to do everything in your power to deny it," said Harry, who certainly wasn't being very nice about it. "But you can blame Remus all you like. It still doesn't change the truth about what you read." He picked the book up from where she'd set it in front of him, tossing it to her side of the desk. "Read it again. See what it tells you when you're paying attention to the important details. The ones a previous version of you would be _furious_ about, by the way—"

She bristled. "Like what?"

"Like class disparity. Like prejudice. Think about who Remus _is_ and why it's so easy to blame him, Hermione!" Harry said, scratching agitatedly at his beard. "Oh, he's poor, mentally ill, what an easy target for the _murder of his own friend_—"

Hermione shot to her feet. "You think I can't see that?"

"You really want to know what I think?" said Harry, mirroring her. "I think the moment you married Draco, you became absolutely fucking _blind_," he said, and then stopped, perhaps realizing that he was breathing hard, or that she was.

Perhaps he realized that she was on the brink of tears and he was nearly shouting, so he straightened, swallowed, and took a moment to stare blankly into space.

"I told you," he said after a second. "I told you what you were marrying into, I warned you from the start. Do you know what they'll do now? They'll bury this with something else. Your pregnancy, your children. Or the opposite. I don't know. Whatever will make people talk over the sound of this, this—" He waved a hand at the book, repulsed. "This uncorroborated pile of rubbish that already ruined his life once."

"So you'd rather blame Draco, then," said Hermione caustically. "You really think Lucius or Abraxas could have done this? Come on, Harry. You know their PR machine isn't that proficient, or Bellatrix Lestrange wouldn't even _exist_—"

"Do you even know what Percy Weasley actually does?" asked Harry, startling her. "Do you really think your posts get so much web traffic because they're so _well-written_? Check again," he suggested, and though his voice was hollow, she felt the sting of derision. "How many of your followers are real? How many of your likes are substantiated?"

She gaped at him. "What does that _possibly _have to do with—"

"It's fake," he snapped. "All of it. Your entire life. It's set up so you can't fail—no," he corrected himself. "It's set up so that _Draco_ can't fail. And what do you think will happen to you if you can't maintain their image?"

Hermione stared at him.

And stared.

"You should probably just go," said Harry, exhaling and falling back into his chair. "Before we say things we'll regret."

She didn't know how to tell him how badly she already regretted them, so she took her things and she left.

* * *

The Dursleys were unsurprisingly delighted with their newfound fame, and their first move was to tease that a juicy tell-all would come along soon. "There's so much more to the story," said Vernon Dursley, who somehow saw himself at the center of all this, perhaps because Gilderoy Lockhart had bolstered that delusion. Hermione clicked out of the window before she could see Vernon and Dudley claim that Pansy had kept them out of Harry's life, though she knew that story had been circulating. Pansy's image had taken a hard fall; now she was the privileged, inbred aristocrat who had cut Harry's relations out of his life and isolated him, which Gilderoy Lockhart's version of the story was all too happy to reinforce.

_Always the woman's fault_, Hermione thought silently in Astoria's voice, though she couldn't bring herself to make the call.

Lucius, of course, stayed out of sight. Narcissa called Hermione's voicemail frequently to chatter about the whole thing as if she found it hysterical. "They'll probably release 'new' details about your courtship with Draco," said Narcissa, who seemed to be enjoying her private speculation. "That or they'll just out some other noble. What's this Longbottom chap up to now? His scandal will delight them, I'm sure. Unless you're pregnant?"

No. Her period had arrived late, but it had still arrived.

Hermione continued routinely dodging calls, responding a few hours and then a few days late to text messages. _You okay? _asked Daphne. _Feels like I haven't seen you in a bit._

_Just so busy! _said Hermione. After all, Draco's birthday had come and gone, and they'd spent it doing another series of philanthropic tours. The Abraxas PR machine was in full force, and book or no book, people still lined up to see Hermione and Draco. There had been so many flowers and cards and embraces and clutching of hands that she'd been temporarily debilitated; blind, she thought with a lurch of her stomach, in precisely the way Harry had said.

Blaise was his normal self, thank god, and Hermione was relieved to see him in the weeks after the _Death Eaters_ book release. "So what was it that Tracey wanted?" she asked him, pleased to finally discuss something as catty and inconsequential as her dislike of Blaise's former fiancée.

"Ah. Well." Blaise's mouth quirked. "I'm pleased you asked, actually—"

"Points?" Hermione prompted, delighted.

"Yes, fine, five points—"

"Excellent. Oh, hi," Hermione added, spotting Astoria when she materialized in the door frame. "You're not heading out now, are you?"

"In a few minutes," Astoria said, holding up a file. "I come bearing fabric swatches."

"Are you alright?" asked Hermione, observing her with a frown. "You look a little off."

"Oh, it's nothing." Astoria waved a hand. "Ah, I forgot something, be right back—"

"Sure, I'll be here. So," Hermione said, turning back to Blaise. "She wasn't begging for your hand in marriage was she?"

"Old Tracey? No, not exactly—"

"Not exactly?" echoed Hermione with a laugh. "Oh god, oh no," she said, watching him fail to meet her eye. "You're not getting back together with her, are you?"

"God, no. Not… not really."

"Not _really_?" she said, a bit worried now. "Blaise, you'd better just come out with it—"

"She wants a baby," said Blaise at precisely the moment Astoria walked in. "Oh good, you're back," he said in a spirited sigh of coincidental timing, and Hermione blinked.

"What?"

"You should maybe close the door," Blaise told Astoria, who did not even question what side of the door she ought to be on. She simply did as she was told and remained where she stood, obviously waiting to hear the rest of it. "Oh, fine, so be it. Look," Blaise said, returning his attention to Hermione. "Tracey wants a baby and she asked me to be the father."

"What, like… the donor?" asked Hermione faintly. All of a sudden she felt vaguely sick.

"More like a co-parenting situation, but yes," Blaise said with a nod. "We wouldn't be together romantically or anything," he assured her. "But she's not getting any younger—her words, not mine—and seeing as I'm not exactly guaranteed to be a father—"

"Don't tell me you're actually considering this," Hermione said, gaping at him. Astoria said nothing, though she looked similarly concerned.

"Of course I'm _considering_ it," Blaise said. "I've always wanted children."

"What? Since when?"

"Well, it's not as if I was ever going to bring it up," said Blaise, perhaps catching the faint note of hysteria in Hermione's voice. "But Tracey knew how I felt about it, and really, it's not a bad arrangement. We're both financially stab-"

"This is about more than money, Blaise," Hermione said harshly, and his brow furrowed.

"I know that." He peered at her for a second. "Are you… cross with me? Or something?"

"It's insane. It's insanely irresponsible." Hermione's heart was positively banging in her throat. "I mean, have you actually thought about this?"

"I've been thinking about it for over a week. You're the first person I've mentioned it to." He seemed wounded, as if he'd expected a better reaction. "Not even Draco knows, I just thought—"

"There's so much to think about, Blaise! I mean, do you and Tracey even get along? What's it going to be like for your kid to have two parents who aren't together?"

"I… imagine it happens all the time, New Trac-"

"Don't call me that," snapped Hermione, ignoring the motion of Astoria turning away. "Blaise, this is just… what about Neville?" she demanded.

"What about Neville?" echoed Blaise, looking irritated now.

"If you ever plan to get back together—"

"He's with someone else," said Blaise. "Cedric Diggory, the footballer. Happy now?"

"You know that's not going to last," said Hermione impatiently. "He's keeping it a secret, and when has that ever worked?"

"Oh, very amusing," said Blaise, dripping with sarcasm. "So I'll just base the rest of my life on your presumption that Neville and I will end up together, shall I? Regardless of my feelings on the matter?"

"You're being an idiot about this whole thing," snapped Hermione. "You have been for months. You love him, Blaise, and denying it is absolutely pointless—"

"Don't tell me, will I end up a spinster? God forbid."

His sarcasm irked her. "Blaise, Jesus, I'm just trying to get you to think about this. Has Tracey really considered the consequences of this? What if she wants to marry someone else in the future?"

"Then I fucking presume she will, Hermione—"

"What if you don't like him? Or what if she doesn't like whoever you end up with? Will you have veto rights?"

"Jesus Christ, I didn't think this would be such a—"

"Sorry," gulped Astoria suddenly, lunging for Hermione's trash bin and erupting, without warning, into a retching sound of illness.

Hermione froze, and so did Blaise.

"Sorry," he said to Hermione, exhaling. "I didn't mean to… I wasn't—"

But Hermione was no longer paying attention to him. Instead she was staring at Astoria, who'd complained the other day of something, nausea maybe; who'd definitely said something unremarkable about how much she'd been craving peanut butter, which was a thing she'd never even liked.

"Don't tell me that's what I think it is," said Hermione, her voice barely audible even to her.

"It's not." Astoria raggedly wiped her mouth, looking ghostly pale. "I… don't think it is. I hope not," she said softly, and though she looked more frightened than Hermione had ever seen her, all Hermione could hear was a debilitating rush in her ears.

"I have to go," she said, and left the room without another word.

* * *

Hermione had her back to the door when she heard Draco's footsteps padding into their bedroom. He stood there for several seconds without speaking, though she didn't turn.

"It'll happen," he said.

She said nothing, so he kicked off his shoes, easing himself beside her on the bed.

"It'll happen," he said again, resting his hand on her shoulder this time.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing hard.

"What if it doesn't?"

"It will."

"But what if it doesn't?"

Silence.

"Hermione, there are other things we could d-"

"What if it doesn't," she said, "and I've failed you?"

"Hermione." His voice was soft with reassurance, hard with worry. "What makes you think you could ever fail me?"

"If I can't…" God, it sounded so stupid to say it aloud. "If I can't give you an heir—"

"Hermione, honestly I—"

"No, don't. Don't make me feel ridiculous right now, just don't." She forced her eyes shut. "If I can't give you a family, Draco—"

"We are a family. You are enough."

"But—"

"You are enough," he repeated, taking her in his arms. "You're enough, Hermione," he said, over and over, and though she wasn't sure he was right—though there was more conversation to be had—she sobbed into his shirt until she finally drifted off, dreaming of nothing.

When she woke up, the air in the room was different. It smelled divinely of Chanel.

Hermione opened her eyes and looked at Pansy, whose eyes were closed.

"Hi," said Hermione.

"Hi," said Pansy, without opening her eyes.

Hermione closed her own and felt comforted.

The feud was over. Thank god.

"I'm glad you're here," she whispered. "I'm losing it without you."

"Yeah," said Pansy. "I know. Me too."

And suddenly, even if it was only temporary, she really was enough.

* * *

One thing nobody ever warned me about adult life was how often I was going to feel like I didn't want to talk about it. I think I always assumed I'd get better at handling things that came my way, but the truth is if it isn't one thing, it's another. If it isn't this, it's something else that never even crossed your worried mind. Life is a series of cycles, regressions and breakthroughs that come and go, and the problems get tougher, or seem tougher, or look bigger, or they weigh upon even the better-at-handling-it version of you that you used to think would be enough.

So I guess in some instances, not-talking about it is precisely how we get by.

* * *

_**a/n:**_ _I wanted to end on a slightly banter-ier note but the word count got away from me, as ever, so… next time. Thanks for your patience! If you haven't noticed, I started posting an original work based on the discography of The Killers—you can find the magical, musical, murderously mysterious __**Mr. Brightside and the Atomic Bomb**_ _on AO3. I'll probably switch off weekly between that and this; I know it's an odd choice, but it's bringing me a weird amount of joy during these troubled times._

_As I mentioned, this story will definitely be completed, I'm just potentially not as reliable for updates as I usually am given *blind gesture* all of this. If you're ever curious if I'm dead or whatever, check my tumblr or Olivie Blake is Not Writing on youtube, which is where I will always let you know what to expect each week. Thanks for reading, and please know I am grateful for your patience and support!_


	8. A Man With Dreams

**Chapter 8:** **A Man With Dreams Needs a Woman With Vision**

_**BRITISH VOGUE**__  
__** BritishVogue**_

_Happy 30th Birthday to the Princess of Wales __** MalfoyRoyal**__! In celebration of Her Royal Highness this Thursday, chart the Princess's life in style here._

_12:25 PM - 16 Sep 2019  
__**1K**_ _Retweets __**854K **__Likes_

_** HRH_hermione**__  
Replying to __** BritishVogue**_

_Born to be Queen! *heart eyes* Happy birthday to our Princess! I hope she and Draco will have babies soon!_

_12:29 PM - 16 Sep 2019  
__**10**_ _Retweets __**85 **__Likes_

_** princessnarcissas27**__  
Replying to __** BritishVogue**_

_enough with this awful woman who has torn apart the royal family she is too busy enjoying her fame to be a true wife & does not have the dignity to be our future Queen. she should be ashamed_

_12:41 PM - 16 Sep 2019  
__**3**_ _Retweets __**12 **__Likes_

_** LadyBellatrix**__  
Replying to __** BritishVogue **__and __** princessnarcissas27**_

_Perhaps one day Hermione will have the grace to lead the Royal Family into the modern era. Until then, we wait._

_12:45 PM - 16 Sep 2019  
__**765**_ _Retweets __**2K **__Likes_

For what it's worth, they celebrated Draco's birthday with a retrospective about his meaningful contributions to the monarchy, but sure, a comprehensive timeline of my sartorial choices is… also fine.

It's interesting what a difficult age this is. A thirty-year-old man? Young, flourishing, or perhaps in the worst case, on his way to becoming a silver fox and settling into his socially inoffensive dad bod. Thirty-year-old woman? It depends. Is she married? If she isn't, she should be by now, her friends certainly are, which isn't even to speak of divorce. Does she have children? If she doesn't, she should soon, within five years she'll be considered geriatric. Sure, she's projected to live at least another half-century, but if she hasn't singled out a mate—if her relationships don't last—if she hasn't excelled in her career—if she doesn't "have it all" by _now_, then will it ever happen? Has she accomplished everything she ever hoped to do in her lifetime despite only understanding her existence in the world for about five forking minutes, if at all?

If it isn't one thing, it's another; if it's not spinsterhood on the horizon, it's the vestiges of an empty career. They ask us to project where we plan to be at thirty and we are nearly always wrong, so what does that do to us? We are measured by our eclipsing beauty, by our fading youth, rather than prized for our maturity, our cultivated talents; we feel shamed for losing our way rather than praised for the skill with which we deftly changed our paths. What does that do to our sense of worth? And who do we become when the sexualization drilled into us since puberty gets diminished by others from this point on? Why do we perpetuate this sense of expectation among ourselves? How can we unworship the prodigies and the ingenues? How do we age out of the sense that, in some way or another, we've crossed an invisible line and somehow failed? Thirty is by all accounts still young, and yet filled with a certain unavoidable dread.

Which is to say I'm fine! Thanks for asking.

* * *

_July 1, 2019  
Anmer Hall, Norfolk, England_

Rather than trying to escape media attention with her parents in London, Hermione opted to spend a brief holiday at her—ehem—_country estate_, which she was horrified to discover was a possession to which she'd somehow grown hoitily accustomed. In her defense, it wasn't actually hers or Draco's but Abraxas' by way of the Crown and was given to them as a wedding gift, and therefore it was perfectly fine and also largely necessary in order to limit their security costs. Was it an excessive expenditure of privilege? Maybe so! But what was she supposed to do, find a Motel 6 and bunker down there with her bodyguards?!

"You might be a smidge defensive about the subject, dear," was Helen's response to that.

In Hermione's further defense, she was in the slightly maddening position of knowing how the other half lived—either "other half" in question—and therefore was resented by everyone, regardless of her choices. There were some who felt she was too aristocratic, spending too much money on clothes or refurbishments for her home and being a strain on taxpayer income, while others who felt she was too common, sending away staff who'd worked for the royal family for generations by insisting on doing any portion of the housework herself. She woke too early, she did too much, she didn't do enough, she lazed about in luxury. It was dizzying, trying to express her consideration for others or even acknowledge her position without becoming sanctimonious, inauthentic. _If she cares about us so much, why doesn't she give us some of that generational monarchical wealth?_ seemed an all-too common sentiment, although it was usually phrased a bit more… aggressively.

Even the increasingly heated controversy over Brexit—which had escalated to the point where Scrimgeour was, as many suspected he would be, pressured by vocal Brexiteer MPs to resign—was not enough to distract people from the much more readily consumed headlines of the Princess of Wales' total unsuitability for the job. After all, why discuss Umbridge's comments about how all "undesirable" immigrants should be surveilled and tracked when they could complain about Hermione instead?

"There's no pleasing everyone," Helen reminded her. "Even the greats have haters. Look at Michael Jordan, or Taylor Swift. Or Jesus," she added as an afterthought. "Little known fact, my dear, that people really didn't seem to care for him at all."

"First of all, these are some disparate pop culture references, Mother," said Hermione. "And secondly, at least _they_ earned their wealth, unlike me. Well," she conceded with a frown, "Jesus is… he's an outlier, obviously—"

"Unless I'm very much mistaken, you _do_ spend most of your time doing something aside from summering in Norfolk, do you not?" Helen countered, fanning herself theatrically. "I would argue that for a great many people, there is no sum of money large enough to tempt them into your lifestyle of unrelenting media scrutiny," she said with a gesture to Hermione's phone.

"Maybe not, but you'd think by now I would've sorted out how to do this properly," Hermione grumbled. "Are they ever going to get tired of finding flaws?"

"No," said Helen.

"But surely they'll—"

"They won't."

"But—"

"My darling, this is all very much wasted on me," Helen said. "Every mother wants her child to have everything she didn't, so if anyone has won at parenting, it's obviously me," she pointed out, gesturing around them to the sitting room they currently occupied. "Well, it's a toss-up between me and Kris Jenner," she amended, before adding to Hermione's look of horror, "Oh, don't be so judgmental. I'd like to see _you_ establish a billion dollar matriarchy out of Calabasas."

"Mom," Hermione groaned. "_Please_ don't compare me to Kim Kardashian."

"She's very entrepreneurial," said Helen astutely, which Hermione chose to ignore.

"This early retirement of yours has you watching way too much television," she said instead. "And anyway, has it occurred to you that I'm almost thirty?"

"That's another point to me," Helen said, toasting Hermione with her cup of English Breakfast. "I successfully kept you alive until this point! You're welcome."

"Mom, you realize that if _I'm_ thirty, that means _you're_—" Hermione broke off. "Holy shirts, are you almost sixty?"

"Why yes, thank you for noticing," said Helen. "I don't believe fifty-five is 'almost sixty' so much as it is fifty-five, but point taken."

"How are you not freaking out?" demanded Hermione.

"Well, I'm a bit jet-lagged," replied Helen. "I have to assume that's the only reason I'm not pulling out my hair and shrieking or wandering my attic still dressed in my wedding gown—"

"_Mom_—"

"Darling, I simply do not know what you want from me," Helen said. "Would you prefer me to lament my lost youth? Because I do hate to tell you this, but I was once extremely foolish," she said, as if anything had ever changed, "and were I to relive any single piece of it, I'd make all sorts of choices that would lead to vastly different results."

"I just—" Hermione sighed. "You're not going to 'everything happens for a reason' this, are you?"

"I haven't the slightest idea what that means," Helen assured her, "but if I'd known in my twenties how hard it would be to have a dental practice and a toddler at the same time, maybe I'd have opted not to do one of them, hm? And _then_ how would I summer in Norfolk?" she asked herself with a sigh, pointedly stretching out on the sofa until she'd kicked Hermione's thigh.

Hermione chose not to bring up the fact that she and her mother obviously had very different family planning scenarios, not only because Hermione was tasked with producing the heir to a somewhat significant British fortune like some kind of Regency bluestocking, but also because apparently—in a story Hermione desperately wished she _hadn't_ heard—her father hadn't been able to properly operate a condom.

There was no telling how much truth there was to that less-than-flattering conception story, but even Hermione had to admit that she couldn't have been wholly intentional; after all, dental school wasn't exactly the opportune time to wind up with a baby and a mortgage. That was the whole trap of womanhood, wasn't it? The times Helen had lost out on residencies or clinic positions that David hadn't because Helen had the full-time job of being someone's mother were just a microcosm of the bigger point: that for any woman, to be successful in her career meant putting off babies until whoops, there went her fertile years, so good luck trying now. Thankfully Helen had a partner in David, who suggested they open their own practice rather than subjecting his young wife to the difficulty of trying to find an employer who might not give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Well, this is the whole thing, isn't it?" Daphne said, sitting barefoot on Hermione's kitchen counter while Theo and Draco set up a horrendous game of badminton outside. "It's not as if it's impossible to be a working woman and a mother, but I'm just not sure I could love both jobs equally—or even _want_ both. And speaking as someone whose own mother seemed rather less than fond of her existence," she added drily, lifting her glass to her lips, "I'm not sure I'm up for subjecting something of mine to the same experience."

"Sometimes I wish it had just happened earlier by accident. I wish someone would have simply taken the control away from me, or that I was slightly less religious with my birth control," Hermione sighed, and glanced at Daphne. "I feel like I could've adjusted to whatever I had to adjust to, like Pansy did."

"You, adapting? Not exactly something I'd call one of your strengths," Daphne said with a laugh. "Or one of mine, for that matter," she added, tilting her head with a reference to the love of her life in the other room that she'd taken multiple years to actually date.

"Well, okay, maybe not—but say you found out you were pregnant," Hermione suggested, still wanting to spin out the hypothetical. "I mean, would it be so bad? Theo would probably stay home with the baby most of the time, and it's not like you guys can't afford it—"

"Look," Daphne sighed, stopping her with a glance. "Obviously I have no idea what I would do in that situation. I can't say whether I'd be pleased it happened or if I'd hate it and come to resent Nott entirely for the rest of my life. What I _do_ know," she said, with a glance that suggested Hermione might be teetering on the edge of pushing her too hard, "is that I don't want my life to change. I don't want to put anyone else's interests before mine or Theo's. And that's what parenting is, isn't it? Putting someone else's well-being before your own?" she prompted Hermione, who couldn't disagree. "So maybe it's unfeminine of me to say, or maybe it's wrong or… I don't know, maybe it's loathsome of me to feel that way, but in the end that doesn't really matter, does it? Because for as long as that stays true, I'm pretty sure I'm not the right person to be someone else's mother."

The conversation had ended there, transitioning to something less heavy, and without Hermione bringing up the argument she'd had with Blaise that had turned into her meltdown over Astoria. She was embarrassed about it now, obviously, but didn't know how to bring up to anyone the fact that, almost without exception, any woman who was having a baby or _talking_ about having a baby or talking about _not _wanting babies or stepping into the other room to feed her baby was filling Hermione with the pathetic fire of a thousand depressing suns.

With Daphne, she was frustrated; why didn't her best friend want what she wanted? And if her own mind had changed so drastically in such a short amount of time, why hadn't Daphne's changed, too? Had Hermione become one of those insane, baby-obsessed women she'd once thought were only wasting their intellects or their talents or their skills?

With Pansy, she was achingly jealous; why had it been so easy for her? Why had _Pansy_, the rigid antithesis of maternal instinct, so easily gotten what Hermione couldn't reach?

With Astoria, it was fear; would Hermione now have to watch her own assistant—whose own marriage was _clearly_ suspect—now have the one thing she wanted? It wasn't even that she blamed Astoria; instead, Hermione felt intimidated by her. What would people say when Astoria was visibly pregnant and Hermione visibly wasn't? Would Draco eventually come to realize he could have gotten what he needed from someone else? Would Hermione keep devolving over this until she became an empty shell of the person Draco had fallen in love with in the first place?

With every month that went by, it felt increasingly like a personal failing, no matter how many times people told her—or how much she told herself—that it wasn't her fault.

"You're too hard on yourself," Pansy said, glancing over at Hermione from where she sat with Teddy in her arms. He was a quiet baby, wide-eyed and intently watchful. He was also calmer than Jamie was or had ever been, which had a tranquilizing effect on the adults around him.

"And," Pansy added with a hint of preemptive warning, "you were a bit too hard on Blaise, as well."

Hermione looked up sharply. "You don't actually think it's a good idea, do you, him having a baby with Tracey? You remember what the two of them were like together."

"Do I think it's a _good_ idea? Not by any reasonable standards, no," Pansy confirmed. "But people do want things illogically from time to time, Hermione. I should think you'd be able to understand that more than most."

"It's one thing to want it," Hermione argued, unwilling to concede the point. "But to not even consider the consequences—"

"He _is_ considering them," Pansy said. "But it's a big decision, and to feel one of his best friends is against him is not the best or safest way to make a wise one."

Hermione groaned. "I'm not _against_ him—"

"I'm not saying you are. But he feels that you are."

"And since when are you the expert on other people's feelings?" Hermione countered, exasperated, and to that, Pansy shrugged.

"You know, every day I learn a bit more how little I actually know," she said. "I can't say I've always behaved admirably, I know that. I try to move forward, Hermione, and you can either consider my thoughts or not." She paused. "This thing with Blaise may be more about you than you want to admit," she added carefully, "and since I don't think it's ever your intention to make any of us feel small, perhaps it's worth exploring why."

That much was true—Hermione had never intended to hurt Blaise, despite essentially accusing him of the same thing that had caused the rift between herself and Pansy. What she did not want to "explore" was the reprehensible truth she already knew: that somewhere in the vilest, most dastardly crevices of her being, Hermione did not want Blaise and Tracey (_Tracey_, of all people, who in one ill-advised sentence had nearly destroyed Hermione's reputation and her marriage to Draco!) to have something for themselves that Hermione felt, however shamefully, that she and Draco deserved more.

They had done things correctly. They had fought for their love and won it, fair and square. Would they always have to fight for everything?

"Hey," said Blaise, finding her while she was sitting alone in the library. "Pansy said you were looking for me?"

He wasn't looking directly at her, which Hermione supposed was her fault. Blaise didn't really have a retaliatory bone in his body, and that's what she'd been to him. She'd struck at him just for having the nerve to reach for something she was selfish enough to think he shouldn't have before she did.

"I wasn't fair to you," she said. "I'm sorry."

He hesitated in the door frame, but then conceded to wander inside, falling into the chair across from hers.

"I know it's a mad idea," he said, leaning forward to steeple his fingers at his mouth. "I do know that, in case you still suspect I don't."

Hermione sat upright, suddenly restless and unsure how to explain. "It's not that I suspect you of anything. It's just that—"

Blaise paused her with a look. "May I, please?" he asked. "Because I'm not sure I've had the chance to explain myself properly." She sighed, gesturing for him to go ahead, and he gave her a grateful smile. "I did once believe I would have children with Tracey," he remarked, and though Hermione couldn't prevent herself from making a face, he shrugged. "I know that things have changed. That your opinion of her has soured beyond even your previous disapproval. But I didn't ask you for permission to love her then, and I won't ask you for permission to respect her now. I don't need any. What I want," he exhaled, "is a chance to explain to you that in the span of a few minutes, I didn't just lose my fiancée. When Tracey walked away from me, she left holding the future I'd planned with her—the home we'd promised each other, the children we wanted, the life we would have built."

He paused, staring at his hands.

"I know that it isn't so much that she took those things from me as it is that I lost them," he said. "She had every right to leave, and though I can't say I'm happy about it, I begrudge her nothing. I respect her choice and I lo-" He broke off, clearing his throat. "I love her. I will always love her, always, in some way, even if she never loves me in any way again."

Hermione swallowed, understanding now why Blaise had never mentioned this to her. Given her own perspective on Tracey, she doubted she would have been receptive to hearing it.

"So," Blaise continued in a very forced tone of neutrality, "for Tracey to offer me this…" He cupped his palm around his mouth, sighing into it. "She'll be a remarkable mother. And for her to tell me that she still believes, despite everything, that I should be a father and a partner is—" He shook his head. "It's beyond anything I deserve."

"Blaise," Hermione attempted, "that's not tr-"

"No, it is. I betrayed her, I let her down, and for her to suffer that and still somehow believe I wouldn't do that to my own child is—" He nestled his head in his hands. "It's enough to make me rearrange my life, my expectations. It's enough to make me want to fit into whatever role she wants me to play."

For a moment he stayed like that, and so did Hermione.

"But," Blaise said after a moment, looking up at her again. "You were right. I just… wasn't ready to hear it at the time."

"Blaise, I'm sorry," Hermione said, sincerely overwhelmed by the force of her remorse. "I wasn't… I never meant to make you feel you didn't deserve to be a parent, or to belittle what Tracey asked of you, I just… I didn't want you to destroy your chance at a future—"

"The thing is, actually, I don't think there's such a thing," Blaise told her evenly. "There is no one future to destroy, just… constant opportunities to change paths. And this is one path," he acknowledged. "A path with extremely pressing challenges, as you've pointed out to me, and I do consider that to be an extension of your best interests. I know what you want for me, and I understand why it isn't this." He rose to his feet, pacing a bit in place. "And I haven't decided," he added, glancing down at her. "I asked her for a bit of time."

"Understandably," Hermione said.

"She told me not to take my time about it."

"Also understandable," Hermione murmured.

"But I think, ultimately, it's best if she talks to people about it, as will I," Blaise said. "I don't think it's a whim, by any means—"

"Of course not." Maybe a bit.

"—but in case it is, she still ought to consider it. What if she meets the love of her life after she's already devoted such a large part of it, in some form, to me?" he said with half a laugh. "I don't want to cause her any more difficulty than I already have, much less any pain."

"And it would be complicated," Hermione added carefully. "The two of you have a tendency to slip back into things, and that might be confusing to a child."

Blaise nodded. "We already agreed we'd not allow any romantic component. I'd be the father, she'd be the mother, end of story." He paused before adding, "I know it's not ideal, but if this is my only opportunity to have a child…"

He drifted off and Hermione rose to her feet, pulling him into a hug.

"I should have told you right off the bat that I support you," she said, holding him tightly, as fiercely as she wished she'd done before. "Whatever you choose, I'm here for you, Blaise. I promise, whatever you do."

He seemed resistant to leaning into the embrace, hesitating.

"You forget," he said quietly. "I remember what it's like to lose you. I've already done it once."

Hermione shut her eyes, wishing she knew how to undo the past.

But then she remembered what Pansy said, and chose to move forward.

"Look, you're my family," she told him, finding a moment's relief in that; in the knowledge that baby or no baby, a family was what they had always given each other above all. "You're part of me, Blaise, and I'll always want you in my life. No matter what."

Draco had all but said the same thing to her, but some things took a bit to settle in. After all, how could anyone learn to believe that love was unconditional, that it wasn't fleeting, when so many things in the world were constantly changing, never the same? In this moment, though, Hermione could be convinced that it was true, and because she knew she meant it, she finally turned a little bit of that acceptance towards herself.

She must have done a good job of it. Blaise seemed—at least temporarily—to believe her, folding her more securely in his arms.

* * *

Harry was a slightly different story.

"You'll have to catch me up on all this new royal gossip," Helen said to him on the morning of his arrival, an innocuously Helen statement that made Hermione's shoulders tense from afar.

Given the nature of their friendship, Hermione and Harry were not in the practice of apologizing to each other—particularly not when, as now, neither wanted to admit that the other had a point, and therefore they were both pretending they hadn't fought at all and that everything was perfectly fine, why do you ask, did someone say something?

As a result, neither had said much outside of two or three words in greeting since their argument over Remus Lupin. It was clear they were both still angry—no, correction. _Hermione_ was angry, and Harry, being Harry, was too certain of his own beatific moral stance to wonder whether he might have gone too far. Pansy was staying out of it, and as far as Hermione could tell, Harry had said nothing to Draco about any of it, the two of them as playfully antagonistic as ever. (Which made Hermione irrationally angrier, because it seemed that Harry's expectations of Draco were troublingly distinct from his _unreasonable_ expectations for her.)

"Oh, essentially Draco's chief of staff ruined my former tutor's livelihood and reputation," Harry assured Helen spiritedly, to which—much to Hermione's disbelief—Draco merely rolled his eyes without comment, brushing aside the snide remark as if the accusation meant nothing. "Also," Harry continued to Helen, "thanks to Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart, my cousin and uncle have popped up again and won't stop talking to the press."

"Didn't you used to work for Lockhart?" Helen asked Hermione. "I don't suppose there's such a thing as a royal talking-to that can make things stop on his end, is there?"

"In his case? No," Hermione said irritably. She glanced at Harry, who wasn't looking at her, and remained perfectly still while Draco sat down beside her on the sofa, one hand dropping to her thigh. "Besides, there's no actual proof Snape did any unfounded life-ruining."

"I thought you didn't like Snape," said Helen, which was extraordinarily unhelpful input that made Harry's eyes cut to Hermione's with a pointed _See?_

"I don't," Hermione said, quietly enraged and hoping nobody would give Harry a reason to remember that she was the one who'd enabled him to reconnect with Lupin in the first place. "But it's a matter of principle."

"Ah, well, far be it from me to interfere with my daughter's principles," Helen said, innocently raising her hands and exchanging yet another inciting glance with Harry, who was still grinning. "She is certainly a lady of formidable convictions."

"Are you mocking me?" asked Hermione, exasperated. Draco's hand tightened on her knee, offering her a pulse of reassurance, or warning.

"Of course not," Helen said. "I'm teasing you, but anyway I can see this is a sensitive subject, so why don't we just—"

"You know, as far as murder mysteries go, it seems to me that there are quite a few key facts missing in this whole thing," commented Harry, reclining at the opposite end of the sofa. "For example, what was Snape doing out of bed that night in the first place? He wasn't exactly friends with the Marauders."

"Marauders?" Helen echoed.

"My father and his three closest friends," said Harry coolly. "They were inseparable."

"Precisely," Draco remarked, surprising Hermione. "Which is why I suspect that if any of the other three were able to blame Snape for any wrongdoing, they'd have done so," he added, carefully reaching over for his tea. YEAH, EXACTLY, Hermione wanted to say, though she was pleased not to have to. Provided he didn't lose his temper, Draco's natural diplomacy was usually a marvelous gun to bring to Harry's runaway knife fights.

"Well," said Harry, taking a sip of his coffee, "it's very honorable of you to give him the benefit of the doubt. Remus certainly wasn't afforded any," he commented blandly, and Hermione stiffened in annoyance. This time she wasn't met with any warning from Draco, who appeared to be intently focused on not being goaded into a retort himself.

"This is a wonderful scone," said Helen, just as Jamie shot into the room, barreling headfirst into her father's lap while Harry lifted his coffee cup, expertly missing any sloshing contact with the bow tied into her ponytail. Pansy and David followed, Teddy dozing in David's arms while Prince Lucius (the dog) trotted morosely in behind them.

"What's going on in here?" asked David, perching on the arm of Helen's chair while she leaned over to coo nonsensically at Teddy. "Ooh, scones," he added, reaching for a bite of Helen's before being smacked away.

"Oh, the usual polite conversation," said Harry, lifting a restless Jamie into his lap. "Religion, politics, conspiracy theories—"

"I don't think I can take any more politics," David said, pained. "Helen and I spent most of our time abroad pretending to be Canadian so as not to be forced to explain any of Bagman's antics."

"Surely that didn't fool anyone for long," Hermione said, trying to imagine her mother convincingly describing any singular location in Canada. Perhaps Vancouver? Though Helen had once referred to it as "worse San Francisco," so possibly not.

"No, but I believe the general mood towards us is pity," Helen assured them, as Draco chuckled. "We met a charismatic pair of Swedes who told us it must be very hard to live in such a backwards country, to which we confessed it was not wholly ideal."

"I take it you didn't happen to mention that your son-in-law was the Prince of Wales?" Hermione asked her mother.

"I believe I did mention he was noticeably English," Helen said, tickling one of Teddy's feet. "For which the Welsh couple and the Scotsman suggested we were even poorer off."

"Oh good, this all sounds safely uncontroversial," came Theo's voice, one of his arms slid around Daphne's waist. Prince Lucius, who had not been able to find a comfortable position in which to lie down, bemoaned this with a bump of his head toTheo's knee. "What else should we discuss?" Theo asked his dog. "Perhaps whether hell exists, or who murdered Peter Pettigrew?"

"Nott, you are truly a lost cause," Daphne said, noting very quickly the distance between Harry on one end of the sofa and Draco and Hermione on the other. Pansy, in either an effort to maintain her schooled neutrality or as part of what Hermione was beginning to suspect was an ongoing paternal stand-in, hovered next to David.

"Thank you very much, Greengrass. Personally, I am of the opinion that we should address this now rather than letting it fester," Theo said, abandoning Daphne near the doorway in the interest of falling into the vacancy between Harry and Draco. He turned, politely shaking hands with Jamie, before glancing around the room. "Where's Blaise? We certainly can't do this without him."

"Do what?" asked Hermione, alarmed, though she noticed Draco was shaking his head as if he already had some idea.

"Present and accounted for," trumpeted Blaise, uncannily sensing that his talents were required and striding in with a fresh pot of coffee. "Anyone need anything? Tea, cream, a very sharp stick which is also a knife?"

"Let me just say once again that I do _not_ have a stake in this," Daphne sighed, draping herself elegantly into a vacant chair as Blaise wiggled in beside Theo.

"I'm not getting involved either," Hermione agreed.

"Sure you aren't," said Harry.

She shot a glare at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Should we leave?" asked David, apprehensively shielding himself with Teddy.

"Better not," said Pansy. "An objective third party might become crucial."

"Objective? They're my parents," said Hermione.

"True," Theo said, "though I don't see how that's relevant."

"In the interest of neutrality," Daphne announced, "I'm going to be the first to suggest the obvious: that the whole thing was, in fact, an accident."

"Ha," said Harry, which was echoed enthusiastically by Jamie.

"More tea? I'll get some," said Draco, rising to his feet until Theo's hand shot out, delivering him back to the sofa.

"Question," Hermione said through gritted teeth, "when four—no, _five_ boys are all out of bed in the middle of the night and only one of them meets a mysteriously fatal end, what's the likelihood of an _accident_? Surely someone was behaving irresponsibly enough to meet the bar for criminal negligence, at least," she pointed out as the others quietly groaned.

From Helen: "As much as I'm aware that I know nothing about the details of the case and in fact should not be leaping to conclusions, I will admit that it does have an element of insidiousness."

From David: "Is anyone going to explain any of this, or…?"

From Harry: "Certainly none of us have any idea. Although we _do _have to consider the fact that my mother told Snape that whatever he did was—Jamie, ouch, sweetheart—she said it was quote, _unforgivable_—"

From Draco: "I'm sorry, this is you _not_ having read Skeeter's book, Henry? You do realize the quote in question is from the Dursleys."

Helen, who to Hermione's dismay was growing increasingly invested: "Wait, what's this about Snape and Harry's mother?"

Daphne, with a sigh: "You know, maybe we should just talk about politics instead. Does anyone have any feelings about Eastern Europeans? No? No pressing immigration concerns? Fine, I tried."

From Theo, who had produced what appeared to be some sort of antique whistle: "Foul!"

Daphne, covering her ears: "Nott, for heaven's sake."

From Jamie: a delighted gurgle of laughter before slithering out of Harry's arms and bounding over to Prince Lucius. (They would likely now chase each other in circles until one or both became exhausted and became the other's pillow.)

Hermione: "To answer your question, Mother, Harry seems to think that Draco _intentionally_ chose our chief of staff in order to serve him some kind of personal slight—"

Harry, objecting loudly: "I never said that."

Draco, with a sigh: "Is there any chance we might be able to let this one go?"

Hermione, ignoring him: "If it's not about Snape, Harry, then what is it?"

Harry, also ignoring Draco: "Of course it's about Snape. But it's bigger than that, which you might actually be able to see if you could just—"

Theo, interjecting: "Foul!"

Daphne, to Theo: "Oh, so you _can_ be useful, then."

Theo: "Greengrass, control yourself, this is not the time."

From Blaise, who had been noticeably uninvolved until that point: "If I may?"

Theo, boomingly: "The floor recognizes the Pointsmaster."

Blaise: "Wonderful. Perhaps a bit of roleplay might be appropriate?"

From Pansy: a pointed glance.

Blaise, ignoring her: "Henry will be New Tracey, and vice versa."

Hermione, annoyed: "What? Why? This isn't about me."

Blaise: "Yes, that's a very good New Tracey, but again you're meant to be Henry in this scenario."

Hermione: "If anything, shouldn't Harry be _Draco_? That is, after all, the person he keeps blaming for all of this—"

Theo: "Very well, Henry will be Draco. And so will Cali."

Hermione: "Wait, we're both going to be Draco?"

Harry: "Who is Draco going to be?"

Theo: "Also Draco."

Hermione: "I'm not doing this."

Draco, to Theo: "Might I perhaps be you instead?"

Theo: "Why?"

Draco: "Because I'd rather not be me in this scenario."

Theo: "Fair enough, too many princes spoil the broth. You can be me."

Draco: "Excellent, hang on—"

Hermione, louder: "I'm seriously not participating."

Draco, rising to his feet in a caricature of Theo's lengthy strides: "Let's see… nonsensical phrases, cerebral instigation, absurd use of props, barely suppressed patricide… yes, okay, I've got it. Go."

Helen, in an undertone to Pansy: "That is actually quite a good Theo."

Pansy to Helen: "After a certain point they're really all interchangeable."

Harry, to Draco: "Go?"

Draco: "Yes, have at it, Henry."

Hermione: "I'm not doing this."

Daphne, to Theo: "Who are you supposed to be now, if Draco's you?"

Theo, stung, to Daphne: "Isn't it obvious?"

Harry: "Why am I the one starting?"

Hermione, irritably: "Because I'm certainly not doing it."

Daphne, to Theo: "Are you supposed to be… Harry?"

Theo, to Daphne: "Absolutely not. You've seen his cheekbones."

Draco, to Blaise: "Is there someone judging this performance? That doesn't sound like me at all."

Hermione: "This is _idiotic_."

Blaise: "Of course someone is judging, and Draco-as-Theodore has a point."

Harry: "My apologies everyone, what I meant was let me check with Grandfather and then if everything aligns we may proceed—"

Hermione, hotly: "Oh, _that's_ rich. It's always just going to be the same dead argument over and ov-"

Draco-as-Theo, more emphatically than she necessarily appreciated in the moment: "Foul!"

Blaise: "Yes, New Tracey, please respect the roleplay."

Hermione: "You can't be ser-"

Draco-as-Theo: "That's a warning, Your Royal Softness!"

Daphne, to Theo: "You're not Blaise, are you?"

Theo, to Daphne: "Woman, have you lost your mind?"

Blaise, to Hermione: "Well?"

Hermione, grimacing, before conceding to become Hermione-as-Draco and saying to Harry, through gritted teeth: "It could stand to be mentioned that I do not simply rely on my grandfather to decide what to think. I am perfectly capable of independent thought and in fact I've grown quite a bit as a person, which _some people_ fail to understand—"

Harry-as-Draco, quite snottily: "And yet I can count the times I've behaved according to my own principles on one hand."

Hermione-as-Draco, inwardly fuming: "Perhaps I, as the sole heir to an oppressively restrictive throne under the thumb of my extremely overbearing father—which all of my friends _know full well_ has been my lifelong cross to bear—have not exactly been afforded the opportunity for rebellion that some other people have had the fortunate ability to exploit!"

Harry-as-Draco, frustratingly impassive: "While the tragedy of having two _living_ parents who are, by their own flaws, incapable of showing love to each other or me is a considerable one, that has no bearing on the point at hand, which is that once again I am insulated by my birth to the point where the destruction of others has absolutely no effect on me whatsoever."

Hermione-as-Draco, shooting to her feet: "Or perhaps I am capable of understanding loyalty to those who have stood by me rather than simply allowing myself to run away with the magic beans I've been sold by some _conveniently_ resurrected former tutor!"

Harry-as-Draco, also standing: "Perhaps I am _also_ capable of understanding that the closest person I've ever had to a brother is being sidelined in the interest of maintaining my office's appearance of normality!"

Hermione-as-Draco: "Perhaps someone who is the closest thing I've ever had to a brother might also manage to understand that this is nothing personal—"

Harry-as-Draco, half-shouting: "Or perhaps he knows it is personal and so do I, and therefore our mutual failure to acknowledge it is the result of our lives irreparably diverging!"

Draco-as-Theo, who was at that moment probably just Draco: a stunned blink.

Hermione-as-Draco, who did not see the passing exchange of silence between Theo, Blaise, and Pansy: "If that's the case, then perhaps Harry should remember that while I trust him with everything, he trusts me with nothing!"

Harry-as-Draco, grimly: "I imagine it is quite clear to me why Harry does not trust me."

Hermione-as-Draco, storming up to him: "Or maybe it isn't, and you should explain it anyway!"

Harry-as-Draco, snarling: "I am going to be king, a position that has nearly cost everyone in my family everything! I have watched my mother and father fall to pieces to preserve something as meaningless and fleeting as the _crown_! I have watched the love of my life nearly slip away from me and still, somehow, idiotically, it is everything to me, certainly more important than the pain my own cousin still suffers—"

Draco, to Harry: "You think I don't know that? You think I don't feel guilty every day? You think I don't sometimes look at her like she'll be gone? Or that _you'll_ be gone?"

Hermione, remembering that she was herself and that they had stopped pretending rather a long time ago: "Draco, you don't have t-"

Draco, shaking his head: "No, let me say this. You two are fighting about something that doesn't make sense. The two of you are more alike than different on nearly every subject, which is how I know this one is about me. Because Hermione, I know you're afraid that if you don't defend me, then Harry may prove himself right about not only my loyalty to the throne, but his belief that I will inevitably put it above you—and Harry, I know you're afraid that if you're not angry with me then you'll be sad, and you've already been sad long enough for one lifetime to go through it again now."

There was a brief moment of silence as Teddy hiccuped, and none of the others moved.

"You're not supposed to take this out on each other," Draco said, glancing between Hermione and Harry. "You're the same, really, in the end. You love so powerfully, so much and so fiercely and with such remarkable compassion, and that you've chosen for some mad reason to love me is the honor of my life. But it's me you're angry with," he told them both. "It's me. Don't take it out on each other."

Hermione glanced at her mother, who tapped David's shoulder and gestured him silently out.

"It's official," Draco said helplessly, letting his hands fall. "Umbridge is replacing Scrimgeour. My grandfather confirmed it this morning." Hermione let out a small hiss of frustration under her breath, but couldn't sort out the relevance until Draco continued, "I never believed it would ever be this way. I never thought I would have to watch things happen and have no power to stop them. I feel, constantly, powerless," he said with a sharp exhalation, "and nothing my grandfather says about things working themselves out is enough to soothe me anymore, because I know better. Because I have you in my life," he said to Harry, "and you," to Hermione, "and because of you both, I can't follow blindly. My grandfather's advisors, his friends, they encouraged him to look away, to simply follow protocol, to know his limits and he _did_, and that's why he can have such faith in doing nothing. But _my_ friends? My _family_?"

He glanced between them, shaking his head.

"I feel paralyzed," he said. "Because either I disappoint you or I disappoint my grandfather, and every day it seems less and less likely that I will manage not to lose all of you at once."

"Draco," Hermione said, a little taken aback, but at the moment, he was looking at Harry.

"Do you want me to get rid of him?" Draco asked quietly. "If that's really what you want, Snape is gone. If what you need to hear is that you're more important, Harry, I'll do it. If that's what you want."

Harry stared at him.

"No," he said eventually. "That's not what I want."

"Then what?" Draco asked. "Please, put it simply. Use small words."

Harry brought a hand to his forehead and Pansy, Hermione could see, managed a flicker of a smile, shifting to sit beside an uncharacteristically quiet Blaise.

"I want," Harry began, and exhaled swiftly. "I want you on my side."

"Meaning you want me to believe Lupin's story over Snape's?" Draco prompted.

"No, I—" Harry grimaced. "I want you to admit that your family did have the means to engineer the outcome they wanted. I want you to acknowledge that you're above me, above everyone, because pretending you're not only makes it worse."

Draco's mouth tightened. "I don't want t-"

"To what, rub it in? But it's true, Draco. It's true, and pretending it isn't or that your family is normal or that it didn't get to where it is by cutting out the unsavory bits is just… it makes me feel alone. It leaves me standing alone," said Harry, frustrated. "You and I are not the same. Which isn't to say that I'm the same as Lupin or Pettigrew or my father, but I need to know that I'm not _mad_—that you see it, too. That this world we live in, it's maniacal. It's archaic and it costs people's lives, their livelihood." Harry shook his head. "I just want to know that you won't become… this, whatever Abraxas is, whatever Lucius is. But given the person you'll have to be, I don't see how you can avoid it, and therein lies the rift."

"Rift," Draco echoed. "Between you and me?"

Hermione sat down on the arm of Daphne's chair. Daphne looked up and slid her fingers comfortingly between Hermione's.

"I lost everyone," Harry said. "Everyone. I can't lose you. I can't."

"But you're willing to shove me out," Draco noted.

"I never said I was going about it cleverly," grumbled Harry.

To that, Draco let out a burst of laughter, signifying that somehow against all odds, a truce could be achieved.

"You idiot," Draco said. "You total buffoon."

"Alright," Harry groaned, "that's enough—"

"You're a complete and total muppet," said Draco.

"You know what? Statement retracted," said Harry. "Offer of friendship declined."

"Come here, you imbecile," said Draco.

"Don't _touch_ me—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Daphne said, suddenly sitting upright. "Nott, don't tell me you're supposed to be _Prime Minister Fudge_—"

"FINALLY. I thought it was obvious," announced Theo.

"How on earth did you guess that?" Hermione asked Daphne, bewildered.

"How could you _not_ see it?" Pansy cut in with a scoff. "Look how daft his face is."

"You can see his weak foreign policy right there around the brow," Blaise added, gesturing.

"Actually, I cheated," Daphne whispered to Hermione, holding up the phone she'd been concealing in her lap. "Pulled up his most recent books on Goodreads."

"Wait, is that _Hogwarts, A History_?" asked Hermione, resolving to follow Theo on Goodreads post-haste. "I love that one."

"Well, I think that's enough roleplay for one day," Harry announced, pulling away from where he'd been wrestled by Draco into something resembling a headlock. "Who won, Blaise?"

"Oh, come on," said Hermione, "it's not like this was a competit-"

"New Tracey," said Blaise. "She's the only one who didn't flagrantly break character."

"-ion… sorry, yeah, cool," Hermione fumbled. "Cool, very cool."

"Plus fifty for winning and minutes five for whatever that was," Blaise said.

"ARE WE FRIENDS AGAIN YET?" called Helen from the other room. "BECAUSE DAVID AND I ARE VERY MUCH OUT OF SCONES."

Pansy caught Hermione's eye, giving her a small, long-suffering smile.

"Come on," Hermione agreed with a sigh, tugging Daphne out of her chair. "Let's get back to our holiday, shall we?"

* * *

"So," Hermione said later. "What do you actually think?"

Draco looked up from his book. "Hm?"

"About the whole… murder thing," she said, perching at the foot of their bed. "Do you think it was an accident?"

Draco opened his mouth, then hesitated.

"I… have spoken to Snape about it," he admitted, setting his book aside. "I suspect there was some wrongdoing involved, but as far as I know the death itself was an accident."

"What? Really?" Hermione frowned. "What do you think happened?"

Draco hesitated.

"I think Snape actually saw nothing," he said slowly. "Or nothing incriminating, at least. But he was young and tormented by the others, so I believe he was persuaded temporarily to make a false claim. Seeing that it went nowhere, it's possible he later recanted," he added, and grimaced. "But more likely I think there was just no evidence, so it was easier for the school to bury the whole thing."

"So then you think Lupin's innocent?" Hermione asked, surprised.

More hesitation.

"No," Draco said. "No, I don't think he's guilty, but I'm not convinced he's innocent. I always felt there was something off about him," he admitted, "and it wouldn't surprise me if he left to avoid scrutiny when Black was no longer alive to protect him. But—"

He stopped, and Hermione tilted her head, prodding him on.

"Well, he came back, didn't he?" Draco said. "And I wouldn't have predicted that from a guilty man." He shrugged. "So maybe there's more to the story."

"Mm." Hermione wandered around in her thoughts for a bit, leaning onto her elbow before Draco suddenly sat up, reaching out to stroke her hair.

"So," he said, "should we talk about it? What I said to Harry."

She sighed.

"Should we? Yes, probably. But I'd rather not," she admitted. "It seems a bit too complicated to settle in one night."

His hand stilled in her hair.

"Well, I think that's the part I want to talk about," he said. "That we don't have just tonight to fix it. I want to believe," he admitted with a slightly pained smile, "that even if I just confessed that I still have concerns from time to time, you do know that I'm trying my best to convince myself that we'll always give each other tomorrow."

An oddly reflective statement, given her own suspicions that she might fail him.

"It's crazy to think that you're as afraid of letting me down as I am of letting you down," Hermione sighed. "It's starting to seem so absurd of us. Can't we just… be convinced by each other?" she asked the universe helplessly.

"I'm told it's not that easy." Draco slid around on the covers until he lay beside her, arms folded beneath his chin. "We didn't promise that when we got married everything would suddenly become perfect," he reminded her. "Though admittedly it's easier for me to believe that you're not walking away when you believe the same of me."

"It's not that I don't believe—" She broke off, because she had the feeling she was about to lie. "Okay, fine. I'm a little afraid," she admitted. "I'm a little bit scared that if I can't make the press love me, or if I can't have a baby, you'll eventually…" She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. "But it's not like I'm terrified of it every day or anything," she rushed to assure him, catching the look of disappointment on his face. "Honestly, I go days, weeks without thinking about it. It's just every now and then I remember it's a possibility, and…"

She thought of Harry's words: _It's fake. All of it. Your entire life. _

_It's set up so that Draco can't fail, and what do you think will happen to you if you can't maintain their image?_

"It's the same for me," Draco told her, possibly catching the beginning of an existential spiral. "I don't live in constant fear. It's occasional, just moments of it, that I wish I could eradicate entirely. I wish I could just slice you open and cut out that fear," he said with a laugh. "I wish I could remove everything my mother ever told you about her own pain, take out every warning anyone else has ever given you. I want to replace all those fears with certainties, both yours and mine."

He reached over, taking her chin in his hand. "And someday, I swear, I will," he promised her. "Even if it takes a lifetime to prove it."

She looked over at him and smiled.

"You know, it doesn't get less romantic when you say things like that, but it gets more… normal," she said. "Like maybe I'll eventually believe you, and then I'll never have to wonder again."

"Which is strange on its own," Draco said, stroking her curls again. "The idea that we'll allow ourselves to get comfortable."

"I'm pretty comfortable now," she told him. "Maybe _too_ comfortable," she added, reaching over to trail the tips of her fingers along his spine.

She watched the skin on his back pebble lightly and laughed when he launched upright, taking her in his arms.

"Well," he said, trailing his fingers up the inseam of her pajama shorts until they'd acquainted themselves with the knickers she'd opted not to wear. "Anything I can do to make you sufficiently _un_-comfortable?"

"Surprise me," she told him, lifting her chin for his kiss.

* * *

Their return to London was a mix of things; the sadness of saying goodbye to her parents—and, as ever, the small moments of guilt over minuscule, forgettable arguments here and there—along with a sense of rejuvenation about returning to work. Abraxas had expressed some intent to increase her solo appearances, possibly because so much had been shifted to Draco's plate, and at first Hermione was pleased to return full-speed to her philanthropy.

At first.

As the summer drew to a close, bringing with it Jamie and Harry's birthdays and a variety of appearances across England and Wales, the fall Brexit deadline loomed, as did the proximity of Hermione's own birthday. Tabloids continued to tabloid, running their new-old stories of marital troubles and infertility, and though Lucius and Narcissa stayed out of the press, the press could not stay away from them.

At some point in late August, there was a marketing push by Lockhart and Skeeter, both still promoting their respective books, that led to a resurgence of speculation about Lucius. "Personally, I think it's extremely telling that he's stepped down just before all of this came to light," said Vernon Dursley, whom the Daily Prophet seemed to consider a legitimate source despite all evidence to the contrary. "What's that about, eh? If you ask me, the royal family's got quite a lot to answer to. When's anyone going to make a statement? My nephew's been all but taken hostage, poor thing," he added with a cartoonish appearance of misery. "Petunia and I thought for sure that revealing the truth about the royals would persuade him to speak to us, but that controlling wife of his—"

Hermione couldn't take much of that sort of bollockery and never made it to the end of any sentence criticizing Pansy. Recently, a private letter from Harry and Pansy to his cousin, Dudley, asking him not to blow the situation out of proportion had been leaked to the press.

"Out of proportion? This is absurd!" declared Lockhart. "It's a muzzling is what it is!"

It wasn't, not at all, but Hermione had her own problems to deal with. As with every other time the situation became about Lucius, there was a resurgence of her own personal nemesis.

"Oh, poo," said Narcissa sagely, seemingly unsurprised when Hermione rang. "So what if Bellatrix is talking to the press? Think of it as a good thing. It means she's squandered all the money Abraxas gave her and now she's poor again," she said with a delighted sigh.

"I just don't understand what she _wants_," Hermione grumbled, looking over Bellatrix's interview with British _Vogue_. "She's constantly subtweeting me like it's _my_ job to somehow fix the British monarchy—"

"I don't know what that means," said Narcissa, "but surely you know by now that it's merely a matter of gaining attention. She clearly never wanted to marry into your position or she would have done it when Lucius asked."

"Well, that's true, but—" Hermione broke off, startled. When Lucius had told her about proposing to Bellatrix against his father's wishes, he had specifically mentioned that nobody else had ever been informed. "Wait. You know about that?"

"What?" said Narcissa in a way that suggested she knew precisely what was _what_.

"You know that Lucius proposed to her and she refused?" Hermione repeated.

"It's a recent discovery," Narcissa sniffed. "And to answer your next question, no, I did not take it well. But Lucius was right that I ought to know about everything if we were ever going to move forward."

"Okay, well—" Not even Hermione had ever known what to make of Bellatrix's decision. After all, Bellatrix had told Hermione that she'd gladly let it haunt her rather than confess the truth. "What do you think she wants?"

"Bellatrix wants what anyone wants. Freedom. Legitimacy. A hand in her own destiny." Narcissa sounded intensely bored. "She was right and I was wrong that Lucius would not be the one to give that to either of us. But I suspect she's discovered by now that all the money in the world will not satisfy her either, so I imagine the whole thing's become a game."

"A game," Hermione echoed.

"She must find you a worthy opponent," Narcissa said. "You might consider it a compliment."

"So you _do_ think she's trying to destroy me?"

"Oh yes, doubtless," Narcissa said. "And bear in mind, she has a track record of success in that arena. She destroyed me, after all."

"No, she didn't," Hermione said. "You're thriving, aren't you?"

"My dear, I rebuilt myself, which is rather not the same thing at all," Narcissa said. "But much of what was valuable to me once is gone. These new bits that replaced them are things I could certainly do without, but I wasn't given the option."

She said it the way Narcissa typically said everything: expressionless and crude, but oddly respectable for its self-awareness. Only one other person had ever spoken to her that way.

"It's so strange to me that you and your sister are so alike and yet so different," Hermione commented.

"Well, we had quite a piece of work for a mother," Narcissa said. "Have you ever noticed that daddy problems leave damage, but mummy issues create veritable sociopaths?"

"I…" Hermione trailed off. "I really have no idea what to do with that."

"The point is men are useless," Narcissa said. "They can't even destroy us properly."

"Well, alright," said Hermione with a roll of her eyes. "Any other advice?"

"Yes. Retinol," Narcissa replied. "For your fine lines."

"Oh, cool," sighed Hermione.

"Unless you're pregnant? In which case possibly bakuchiol—"

"I'm, um. Not," Hermione said, clearing her throat and glancing up at where Astoria was setting out the McQueen suit she'd selected for that evening.

"Ah." Narcissa was quiet for a moment. "It took me some time as well," she said. "Of course, I had nothing else to concern myself with and you're clearly very busy," she remarked, leaving Hermione unsure whether that was a jab at her public appearances.

Hermione thought for a moment of an old picture she'd once seen of Narcissa and Prince Lucius (the man). Lucius was speaking to someone on his left, and Narcissa's bodyguard was turning right, and Narcissa alone faced forward, emerald green in a sea of black tie, her eyes downcast and visibly alienated amid the crowd.

"Yeah, well." Hermione cleared her throat. "I'm not exactly young anymore. I have to make myself valuable in some way."

Astoria looked up sharply and Hermione looked down.

"Well, if you're going to be self-pitying," Narcissa said after a moment.

Hermione sighed, remembering that Narcissa was the only person even less sympathetic than Pansy.

"I just meant—"

"You do not make yourself valuable," Narcissa said, cutting her off. "You are valuable. You were born valuable and no one can ever take that from you. Not even you. Do you understand?"

Hermione, who had expected a much different sort of comment, felt a sudden, sharp prick of tears at that.

"Yes," she said.

"Good. I have to go, the sandwiches are here." There was a click and then Narcissa was gone.

Hermione looked up from the phone to find Astoria staring curiously at her. They had been relatively formal lately, even distant, no longer speaking casually. Hermione hadn't wanted to bring up the moment that had passed between them, finding it an inappropriate thing to ask an employee, but also couldn't figure out how to mend the damage she'd caused. She longed for the previous days of easy conversation, or the sense that she was less alone. As much as Hermione adored Daphne and Pansy, there was no pressure to Astoria's presence. She was like Teddy, soothing just for being calm and in the room.

"The suit looks lovely," Hermione said, sounding a bit too clipped. She shifted in her seat and tried not to openly flinch at her error.

"Thank you." Astoria tucked a dark lock of hair behind her ear and turned to leave the office, pausing only to glance over her shoulder. "Hermione?" she said.

"Yes?"

"I—" Astoria stopped. "Would you mind terribly if I joined you for lunch?"

Hermione blinked. "No, of course not. Please join me," she said. "I'd love it."

Astoria nodded, and though Hermione was quite certain they wouldn't discuss anything of importance, she felt an unavoidable wave of relief.

"Wonderful," Astoria said, taking the first step back to normalcy. "Then I'll be right back."

* * *

"Will you still want me when I'm old?" Hermione asked Draco in bed that night.

"It probably bears reminding that I, too, will be old," Draco pointed out. "So I could ask the same of you."

"It's not the same. You'll still be handsome."

"Maybe I won't."

"You will. And meanwhile, _I'll_ be—"

"Beautiful. Always."

"Shut up," Hermione sighed. "I'm going to be thirty," she said, testing it aloud.

"Yes, I know. I will be, too."

"But I'm going to be thirty for _months_ before you're thirty."

"True."

"I used to be a prodigy, Draco," she lamented, "and now I'm _thirty_—"

"Are these things technically related?"

"I'm always going to be older than you," she mumbled. "I hate that."

"You'll also always be smarter than me. And braver, too. Do those facts bother you as well?"

She buried her face in his skin and sighed.

"You're positive you don't just love me for the elasticity of my skin?" she asked hopefully. "Or the, you know, general tits-ness of my boobs?"

"Tits-ness?"

"I feel like they're tits when you're in your twenties. At thirty they're like… _breasts_."

"You might be overthinking this," he said, fighting a laugh. "Though for the record, I love your tits. And I will continue to love them, even if they no longer belong to a prodigy."

"Don't," she moaned pathetically.

"Fine, I won't." He pulled her closer. "Doors are opening for you, Hermione," he said, kissing her forehead. "Not closing."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

"Forgive me if that's not entirely convincing."

"Forgiven," he said. "And no offense, but for what it's worth, I'd rather have thirty-year-old Hermione than twenty-year-old Hermione."

She pulled away to look at him. "Really?"

"Really," he said, kissing the tip of her nose. "I liked her, but she was… less self-assured, less confident, perhaps a bit naive, somewhat less skillful in bed—" He dodged a smack to his chest. "And anyway, she hadn't known yet what it was to get knocked down and come up stronger."

"Is that a boxing metaphor or a Chumbawamba reference?"

"I'm excited for everything you have yet to become," he said, rudely dismissing her hilarious joke. "Just like I can't wait to meet all the Hermiones that come after that. I mean honestly," he said with a rather adoring gaze, "how could I not love this version of you more, when every year I get to spend with you gets better?"

She had to admit he made a good point. After all, she, too, would choose him over everything. Over _everyone_, including all the prior versions of him.

"Fine," she said, feigning difficulty and pulling away, but he kissed her forehead, holding her for a moment longer.

"Happy birthday, Hermione," he said in her ear, and though it would be hours yet, she was glad he'd already moved on to tomorrow. It reminded her that there would be a tomorrow for them, always, and that was more than enough to look forward to.

* * *

Saying goodbye to my twenties is hard. It's been the best part of my life so far—the part where I met my husband, found my voice, fell in love with all my best friends—and to leave it behind feels like leaving part of myself in my past. It's a bittersweet parting with my youth, or so I expected to feel.

But it occurs to me now that my mother is right: youth is fleeting, and that's not entirely a bad thing. The beauty of youth is its stupidity, its utter moronity. The recklessness of failing and still staggering on regardless, because it's how we learn that neither the universe nor time will ever stop for us. Thirty is still young, of course, but it also isn't youth anymore, and for the first time, I'm really forking glad about that.

I have a feeling that whatever awaits me after that clock strikes twelve, I'll not just move onwards, but upwards, too.


	9. What Are Sisters?

_**a/n:**_ _I actually wrote this chapter two weeks ago, but with the times as they are, I didn't feel it was appropriate to promote my own work. One week away doesn't change the need to celebrate Black voices, but I'm glad I took the time to listen and educate myself. There are so many stories we need to hear, so please know that while I'm now back to updating, I'm aware that the effort to elevate Black stories doesn't end here._

* * *

**Chapter 9: What Are Sisters If Not to Share Troubles?**

_**BORGIN & BURKES, Publishing great authors since 1800  
BorginBurkes**_

_CHAMBER OF SECRETS by __** gilderoylockhartofficial**_ _gets its sixth consecutive week on the UK bestseller list! A riveting exposé unlike any before, this deep dive into the insidious lives of the courtiers of the House of Malfoy is not to be missed! #TheChamberHasBeenOpened _

_5:16 PM - 1 Oct 2019  
__**23**_ _Retweets __**122 **__Likes_

Unlike any before? It's not even unlike one released the very same weekend—though I suppose I shouldn't bat an eye at any absurdly sweeping claims from a publishing house that considers Gilderoy Lockhart, disgraced former journalist, to be a legitimate source of information. Doubtless it will surprise no one to hear that stranger things have crossed my desk since I began working in my capacity as Chief of Staff for Her Royal Highness Hermione, Princess of Wales, a woman to whom I once offered a tampon. (She bleeds like the rest of us! Astounding, I know.) This tweet, as you might imagine, is being filed under 'nonsense' and will be strictly forgotten about henceforth—though, I can't say I wouldn't have felt a bit of tension at seeing it six weeks ago.

As a courtier to the House of Malfoy myself, I'm rather pleased this exposé took such care to meticulously leave me out. It's a first for me as far as _appreciating_ being ignored, which I can't exactly say is uncommon practice. Brown girls don't get much spotlight unless it's about someone wanting us to go back somewhere, which is usually a place they've willfully gotten wrong. I had my concerns about the possibility of excess scrutiny at first, given my… proclivities, but now it makes sense that my name wouldn't make an appearance. Since when has anyone concerned with the British Monarchy ever been preoccupied with the likes of me? Unless there's something to be co-opted in a museum, that is, though in recent times that sort of blatant imperialism has gone ever so delicately out of fashion. (Which is not, however, to say that it has been eradicated. We just disavow it now and then whenever the Twittersphere will let us.)

I got a fair amount of shit when I first accepted the job, if I'm being honest. I don't exactly come from a background of reverence when it comes to the Royal Family, though my mum does seem to have developed a soft spot for Hermione. ("Well, one has to assume they cannot _all_ be as entirely backwards as they appear," she commented on the day Prince Draco married Hermione, which, if you knew my mum, you'd know was remarkably sympathetic.) Needless to say, Mum doesn't keep a portrait of King Abraxas hung lovingly in the living room, which can't be said of some of the families I went to school with in my youth.

Why did I take this job then, you ask? Not because I love the monarchy—certainly not that, not by a long shot. And certainly not because I love the idea of being considered complicit in this monarchy's history, which is indeed rather questionable, even if it isn't worth two celebrated tell-alls, either. It's not _not _my loyalty to Hermione, though I can hardly confess to having had any at the time I accepted the job. Nor is it as if I was born for this—I'm very good at nearly everything my work entails, true, and at some point one has to stop questioning whether one's talent for managing a schedule is the height of one's destiny, but I didn't exactly put this on my turning-thirty career goals.

Which leaves us with the only remaining possibility: that if I'm being honest, I wouldn't have a fucking clue what I ought to do with myself otherwise.

* * *

_20 September 2019  
London, England_

Most of what Padma Patil thought about the world stemmed from a single night at university. Which was not to say it was a noticeably educational evening, because it definitely was not. But there is a certain something that can happen to a person upon realizing that there are limits in life, constraints on their wanting, and from there they become… not a _lesser_ version of themselves, necessarily, but one that is inherently both sadder and wiser. For Padma, the moment in question would later cleave her in half, delivering her to two separate Padmas: the one on the outside and the one buried covertly within.

She remembered the kiss being a dare, though her recollection of the events leading up to it was foggy. She'd been drinking, of course. It wasn't often that Padma overindulged, but it happened, largely because she was young and also because she was surrounded by morons whose opinion of her she coveted beyond reason or wealth. At the time, Padma was much as she was now: directionless, decently skilled at almost anything she put her mind to, and unsure whether one subject was any more interesting or more compelling than the next. She was logical and organized, clever and socially adept, but there were no stars that lit up her eyes when she spoke about this thing or that one. What Padma did not do capably was love.

She remembered the top she'd been wearing as "cute," stolen from her sister, and not very Padma at all, due to the excess of sparkle. But it was, quote, a "going out" top, and this was a "going out" occasion, and that meant getting sauced on sugary cocktails and letting herself be convinced that any given moment was a perfectly fine time to dance. She remembered the sparkles because there had been a consistent gleam throughout the evening; light projecting from her woeful but optimistic tits onto the faces of everyone else in the room.

Perhaps it had been spin the bottle. (It had been immensely childish, whatever it was.)

"Let's just get it over with," Tracey suggested, and though she and Padma had not been close yet—they were in two separate dorms, and anyway Tracey would later leave for an entire term to study at Stanford—there was something in Padma that had always thought well, if I'm going to have to kiss a platonic acquaintance, I suppose I'd want it to be Tracey Davis. Tracey was rich but not aristocratic, fashionable but not quite posh; she had perfect, glossy hair and the ideal wardrobe, filled to the brim with cute tops. She had thighs touting a regimen of pilates and hydration and abs that reflected the many cravings sacrificed to salads and fitspo—which was something that Padma did too, albeit not as religiously. (Her mum would never stand for it at home.)

In any case, Padma agreed they should really just get it over with and as a result, the kiss was very brief and dominated mostly by noise. Terence had been there, whom Padma would later date for several years. Terence Higgs was a catch, as Padma's mother often said, which was high praise, really, because all the white boys who'd come before him had not been sufficiently "marriage material." Padma had worked her way up to convincing her mother to grit her teeth and accept that Padma would not settle for any sort of conventional life, which wasn't exactly going smoothly. That being said, Padma would later break up with Terence on the basis of their life together being too sad and conventional (she'd used different words), though they would remain very close friends.

Tracey Davis had tasted like bubblegum in the way that occasionally happens when Red Bull mixes with jager, and thus, two disparate things become somehow exceedingly sweet. She had only the faintest bit of gloss left on her mouth, but Padma had just taken a gulp of whisky and the bitterness—it was a smoky, horrifying scotch—mixed with Tracey's sweetness to provide the sensation of burnt caramel, like crème brûlée, dissolving on Padma's tongue. She remembered wanting to try it again, to mix flavor combinations, to pour a bit of citrus into Tracey's mouth for some bite, a little tartness. A perfect cocktail. She remembered Tracey had laughed and said something about how odd it was to kiss a girl, like having a pull where there was meant to be a push, and dizzily Padma had thought something similar—only she had _liked_ the new-tingling oddness, licking the sense from her lips that she would very much like to do it again.

Ultimately, two things happened that night. One, Padma realized that her attraction to women was not merely some objective, outsider's appreciation the way it was to other women ("ah, cute top," "your legs look fabulous in that dress," "is that a new haircut it looks so chic," etc etc), and two, that she would now and forever associate her feelings at least partially with Tracey Davis herself, which was a hopeless crush that would never go anywhere at all and that was fine. What Padma had learned about herself was that she could be something on the outside and something else on the inside and that existential division, for her, was not a problem. She realized that she did not have what other people had, which was some need to define herself by what she was called or what she seemed to like. She was neither posh nor plebe, neither exceptionally beautiful nor oppressively ugly. She was neither gay nor straight, neither white nor Black.

She could have allowed those things to plague her but she didn't, because she had decided that night (while she was tasting Tracey Davis and bubblegum) that she would simply focus on what she did rather than who she was. It was Padma's dearest belief that most people were exceptionally egotistical, needing compulsively to fulfill some deep-seated personal prophecy that they were meant for inevitable greatness. It meant that most people wasted their lives searching for meaning, while Padma Patil, a practical sort of bird, would not waste a single moment of hers.

Over the course of the next decade or so, Padma would sleep with four men and three women, one of whom she would date very seriously (Terence, of course, for five years and then for a bit of what she liked to call 'overtime' in the aftermath of their breakup because he was so absurdly skilled at cunnilingus) and another she would date less seriously (Cho, who was ultimately too emotionally volatile, for which she had blamed Padma's ambivalence toward her own sexuality but which Padma felt, quietly, was not actually about Padma at all). During that time Padma would maintain her friendship with Tracey, watching her go from sleeping with Blaise Zabini to angry with Blaise Zabini to cursing Blaise Zabini's name to mooning over Blaise Zabini to then ending her engagement with hardly a word. It had taken several months to extract the whole story from Tracey, who was monstrously private. Since the engagement had been called off, though, Padma was one of the only people Tracey still spoke to, having sickened by then of her time in the public eye and withdrawn for purposes of total, Blaise-less reinvention.

Or so Padma had thought.

"You're serious?" Padma echoed upon hearing Tracey's latest plan for (ironically) becoming a newer, more self-sufficient version of herself. "A baby? An actual human baby?"

"Yes, an actual human baby," Tracey confirmed, hardly batting an eye. "Surely this is not a foreign concept?" she prompted unhelpfully, arching a brow. "Don't tell me your mum's not been pestering you about children for years."

"Of course she has." Padma's mother had been expecting grandchildren ever since Padma first brought Terence home, and had then proceeded to grow increasingly panicked about the state of Padma's precious, precious eggs with every passing moment since their breakup. "That doesn't mean I listen to her."

"Well, it's not a matter of me _listening_ to anyone so much as wanting it for myself," Tracey said, reaching over for the sugar. Instinctively Padma glanced down at Tracey's finger, where the once-coveted diamond engagement ring (a classic solitaire, not too fussy, perfectly Tracey) was no longer worn.

"I have no interest in a husband or a partner," Tracey went on for purposes of clarification. "If anything, the idea of being a mother by myself appeals to me much more. There won't be anyone to undermine my parenting style."

"Do you have a controversial technique in mind?" asked Padma, amused.

"That's not the point," replied Tracey curtly, giving Padma a flutter of an eye roll. "But after nearly a decade spent waiting for love or approval or what-have-you," she remarked without inflection, "I'm not exactly enamored with the idea of waiting around some more."

That wasn't entirely without merit. Though it wasn't entirely without desperation, either.

"It will be complicated," Padma observed aloud.

"Of course it will," Tracey agreed. "But what about life is not already complicated?"

Well, point Tracey for that one. "How exactly would you explain the situation to your child?" Padma asked out of curiosity. "Presumably they will one day ask why their mother and father do not resemble the other mothers and fathers at school."

"It's not as if they'll develop a complex over it," Tracey said, splashing a bit of milk into her tea. "Besides, the only _really_ screwed up children are the ones nobody wanted, and isn't this the opposite? Personally I'd rather have the benefit of knowing my mother and father would pick me over each other," she concluded, which certainly sounded reasonable enough.

(Ish.)

"So what does Blaise say to this?" Padma asked carefully. She had a practice of not mixing her work life with her personal one, which meant that she did not typically ask Hermione about Blaise or Tracey, nor did she ask Tracey about Hermione or Draco.

"He's going to say yes," Tracey said without elaboration.

"What if he doesn't?"

"He will."

"But if he doesn't, will you go with a donor, or…?"

"I'm not concerning myself with alternative scenarios just yet." Tracey fingered the handle of her cup before sighing. "Listen, if you're trying to talk me out of it—"

"I'm not," Padma assured her. "But it's quite a massive decision, isn't it?"

In Padma's mind, this was a very straightforward thing to say. Tracey, however, did not seem to take this question well at all.

"Why exactly is it," Tracey exhaled irritably, "that gambling one's entire life and future on another person is considered some sort of _conventional necessity_, whereas the most natural thing to do on earth is somehow a radical choice? There was always far more risk to my well-being in marrying a man who kept secrets from me than there will ever be in having a baby," she finished, half-slamming her cup back on the saucer.

Padma did not feel it was necessary to point out that Tracey had always had a bit of a weak spot for Blaise. Probably because it was not unlike the weak spot Padma had for Tracey. "If this is what you want then I support you, one hundred percent," Padma assured her. "But after the year you've had—"

"But that's it precisely," Tracey cut in, still protesting in earnest. "Over the last year, I changed jobs to something that feels fulfilling. I left a relationship that wasn't working. I exercise regularly, I've cut all the toxicity out of my life, I have hobbies… Christ, I meditate now, for fuck's sake," she muttered irritably. "I've gotten through all of this and come out better for it, so at some point there's no more reasons left to wait, are there? I'm not exactly in my prime," she concluded with a tinkling of spoon against porcelain.

"But you do realize that if you have a baby with Blaise, then he's in your life forever," Padma reminded her. "Which means that everyone in his life is _also_ in your life forever," she clarified, which was more specifically the point she was trying to make.

"Yes, well." Tracey gave something of a listless shrug. "It's not the same as if I'd married him. And anyway, Hermione's not exactly thriving either, is she?" She gave Padma a look that suggested that Padma of all people should know, though it was also understood that nothing would be confirmed or denied between them. "She's getting so tormented by the press that even I nearly feel sorry for her," Tracey murmured in a laughing tone, not entirely meeting Padma's eye.

Tracey was not nearly as heartless as she pretended to be, but Padma indulged her play at ambivalence. "Why Blaise?" Padma asked instead, watching Tracey pick at the edge of a cuticle for a moment before grimacing.

"How do you do that?" she demanded.

"Do what?"

"Ask the wrong question. Or the right one, I don't know."

"Has nobody else asked you that yet?" Padma asked, very much doubting it.

"Well—" Tracey turned away, sinking back into her chair. "Everyone else is a bit more concerned with whether or not I'll end up alone," she gloomily confessed. "Apparently nobody but me seems to think that being alone inside of a marriage is the worse option."

At the mention of strained marriages, Padma thought briefly of Astoria, then pushed the thought away. The last thing she needed was to speculate about her colleagues, even in private. And Astoria in particular was something Padma needed to think considerably less about.

"Just because things went wrong with Blaise doesn't mean they'll always go wrong," Padma reminded Tracey. After all, it was impossible to spend time around Draco and Hermione and not believe that for some people, marriage was not only a social convention but the proper state of things. Wasn't that the purpose of the whole institution, to find someone who ultimately made you wiser, stronger, better and more compassionate overall? Even from a PR perspective, which was the one Padma typically occupied, Draco was warmer and more authentic with Hermione at his side, and Hermione was calmer and surer with Draco beside her. In private, it was even more obvious: Draco treated each brush of contact with his wife like something he'd specifically come there to steal, and Hermione always leaned in when he spoke as if the two of them were sharing a secret.

Neither of them could have been what they were without the other. Some people, in Padma's opinion, could be more together than they might ever manage alone.

"I just don't understand why I need to have someone in my life in the first place," Tracey sighed, her thoughts obviously elsewhere. "What use is a husband, anyway? It's just a man taking up space in my house."

"Doesn't have to be a man," Padma teased, careful to keep her voice light.

"True." Tracey slid her a half-laughing glance. "Though I can't imagine how I'd live with a woman, either." She straightened again, then sighed. "The point is, I want someone that I know I can stand—and I _do _want my child to have a father—but I just don't want to have to…"

She trailed off.

"You don't want to get hurt," Padma guessed.

"I don't want to be _invested_," Tracey corrected. "I don't want to tie my heart to anyone else's. I want to be able to focus on what's best for my child and for me."

"And if you fall in love later?"

Tracey looked doubtful, but shrugged. "You know, if you think about it, having a baby will only help me sniff out the good men from the shite ones," she said, her tone performatively casual. "Anyone who isn't willing to love me regardless—or who isn't willing to love my child just because it isn't _theirs_—that isn't someone I want in my life to begin with."

"You do have a point there," said Padma.

"And to answer your question…" Tracey trailed off. "I trust him. Blaise," she clarified.

Padma snorted quietly and Tracey rolled her eyes.

"Not with _me_," she said firmly. "Not in a relationship sort of way, trust me. Never again." She grimaced. "But… I do know what sort of man he is," she explained. "I know what kind of life he wants, and I like to think I know what kind of love he offers. What it feels like to be loved by him." Her smile warped, just for a moment. "He'd be so doting, honestly. He's warm and unpretentious, and he's terribly fun." Tracey had once described certain moments of Blaise's love as feeling lit by the sun, and at the time, Padma had very intentionally not asked what happened when the sun went down. "Besides, compared to _my_ father—"

"You can't choose someone who's the exact opposite of your dad just because you're still angry with him," Padma cut in.

"I'm not," Tracey said, and then, more quietly, "I'm not."

_You are_, thought Padma adamantly.

But then again, what difference did it make? Maybe Tracey was right, and happiness was not about the right reasons or the right choices or the right time. After all, it was Padma who knew the difference between deeds and destiny. It wasn't right to try to live by some preordained path when things were always changing and predictability was null. At the heart of Padma's philosophy was a singular grain of truth: that in the end, you were really the only thing you could control.

"If this is what you want, then I'm with you," Padma said, deciding that was the only right answer in this particular scenario. "I think any child would be lucky to have you for a mother."

"I know you're just saying that, but thank you," Tracey sighed.

"Why on earth would I just say it?"

"Because it's just what people say," Tracey grumbled, "and anyway, obviously I'm not, you know, _maternal_—"

"I should think you are, _you know_, maternal," Padma countered firmly, "seeing as you're already making choices as if there's someone else's happiness at stake."

Tracey gave her a thin smile and Padma had a recurring feeling; the sense she'd been getting quite often lately, which was that Tracey would no longer taste like bubblegum. That had been the Tracey of their youth, and this Tracey was more somber, more subdued. She was a sadder version of her younger self, but she was more determined for having been tested; more powerful this way, more secure. The woman Tracey Davis had become was worth loving, not simply tasting, and not for the first time, Padma had the sense that the world was a very unfair place if Tracey did not get exactly what she wanted at every hour of every day.

But that was for one internal Padma to think and another, outward Padma to carefully suppress, because of course the world was not fair. It was a world where Padma and Tracey were fundamentally never going to happen, which, again, was fine. Padma had had nearly a decade to become extremely okay with it, and by now it merely existed in the back of her mind to be brought out every now and again.

Like, for instance, now.

And again.

"We should go out," Padma suggested, opting to change the subject. "You need a bit of fun."

"Oh, I have plenty of fun," Tracey drawled. "Have you never stayed late on Friday night to balance the budget for a line of high end boutique hotels? It's really riveting stuff. Obviously not the high stakes world of royal day planning," she playfully demurred, "but still—"

"Shut up," replied Padma, ignoring Tracey's smug chuckle in response. "I do more than plan her day, you know. Last week one of the royal charities tried to poach me for their executive director position," she added, as Tracey arched a brow.

"And you turned it down?"

"I like my job," Padma said without elaboration. There was no reason to get into her plans to establish a development program for young women on Hermione's behalf, or her intention to continue digging up small female-owned companies and nonprofits for Hermione to support, or the fact that, in all likelihood, Padma would never again find an employer so keenly aligned with her own beliefs. "And anyway, drinks after work tomorrow?" she suggested tangentially. "If we plan it right, we could cause a decent ruckus and still be in bed by eleven."

"Make it ten and you have a deal," said Tracey, amending after a second thought, "Assuming we don't drink red wine. At this point it just makes me tired."

"You're depressing me," said Padma.

"Have you noticed your hangovers getting worse lately? Mine are."

"Stop."

"I've got a headache just thinking about it, honestly—"

"We're aging so beautifully," Padma sighed. "Hardly a flaw in sight."

"Don't remind me. Am I healthy yet?" Tracey mused aloud, and though Padma had the sense she should press her on the subject, she didn't.

"Tomorrow night?" she said.

"Tomorrow night," Tracey agreed.

Then they glanced at each other, exchanging a smile over their respective cups of tea.

* * *

"You're going out tonight, really?" Percy echoed the following morning, his glasses slipping down his nose again. "But I thought you hated the outside world," he said, nudging them upwards with a frown.

"Oh I do, indubitably," Padma confirmed, nudging him to pass her the file sitting atop the far corner of her desk. "However, I do try to make appearances now and then, just so I can tell my mother I've been dating."

Percy winced. "My mother's been on a tear lately with the blind set-ups," he confessed in a low voice. "I think the idea of having a divorced son keeps her up at night."

"At least _you_ already have a kid," Padma pointed out. "My mother thinks I've used up all my eggs on my, quote, 'liberal misadventures,' end quote."

"Surprisingly, my recalcitrant eight-year-old isn't quite as appealing to most women as you'd think," Percy said drily.

"Oh, and dating as a woman in her thirties is any improvement?" Padma countered.

"I thought you're twenty-nine for two more months?" Percy said, fixated as he was on accuracy.

"Which is even worse," Padma assured him. "Do you know that I once had a man cancel on me because he said women at twenty-nine were too desperate for commitment?"

"Let me guess," Percy mused, "he was… thirty-five?"

"I hadn't even gotten the chance to find out! He must have stalked me," Padma grumbled. "Bloody technology."

"Doesn't sound like he's worth wasting any time on, anyway. Much less any of those dwindling eggs of yours," Percy said in his voice that was _almost_ too serious to be a joke, for which Padma gladly reached over to sock him hard in the arm. "Excuse me," he protested, nursing his injury. "These are the _royal offices_—"

"You're not funny, Percy Weasley," Padma said, though actually he _was_ quite funny, and she was the only one who had any idea. There was something about their mutual commitment to being contentedly (for the most part) single and therefore bemoaned by their families that offered them the security of common ground. "How are things going with Will, by the way?"

"Mm, it's been… a bit better? Although," Percy said with a frown, leaning against her desk until he was sitting at the opposite edge of it. "I did wonder if I could get your thoughts on something."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Well, it's…" Percy's cheeks flushed, a telling sign. "It's a bit odd."

"I certainly hope so, Weasley, if you're going to be blushing like a schoolgirl in my office," Padma said, looking up mid-laugh when Astoria slid into the room.

"Good morning," Astoria said, nodding to Percy and handing something to Padma. "Duplicates of Hermione's wardrobe for the week."

Before Astoria, Padma had thought herself exclusively attracted to a certain type of woman. It had always been fairly straightforward to pinpoint, but then she'd met Astoria Poliakoff, who was a bit tall for a woman with runner's calves, her willowy figure neither athletic nor entirely without an athlete's shape. She was undoubtedly feminine, but something about her seemed nearly androgynous and sharp. A bit Keira Knightley, Padma supposed, in that she was more understatedly queenly than vacuously princess-like.

"Wonderful, thank you," Padma said, accepting the files, "though Hermione did say she wants to be paperless by the end of the month."

"So she did," Astoria confirmed. "But I think we can all agree that His Majesty's staff at the Palace is unlikely to acquiesce."

"A fair point. We'll have to get moving on the interdepartmental technology training, I think," Padma said, before glancing at Percy and realizing he'd been interrupted. "Astoria, do you have any thoughts on this?" Padma posed with a gesture, Percy's face clearly expressing a disinterest in widening their circle of confidentiality.

"On what?" asked Astoria neutrally.

"Well, we're about to find out." Padma waved a hand in Percy's direction, goading him with a look. He glared at her, briefly, but then fidgeted with his watch. It had been understood for the past couple of months that while Padma and Astoria were friends and so were Percy and Padma, the third leg of that amicable triangle had yet to be closed. Padma, perhaps out of her own personal boredom, had been trying to maneuver the situation to her benefit, hoping they'd warm to each other over time.

"I just wondered if it was at all… unseemly," Percy began, which was a good start, since Astoria generally had a very strong concept of what was or wasn't unseemly, "for me to spend some time with—"

He broke off, eyes darting to the door and back to Padma.

"Well, I've been having a bit of trouble bonding with my son," he said.

"Noted," said Padma, which meant, in so many words: _duh_.

"It seems that Will is rather enamored with a friend of the Prince and Princess. Mr Zabini, that is," Percy clarified, after Padma and Astoria both stared expectantly at him. "Will has asked to see him again. Naturally I don't think it's quite fair to burden him with the task of babysitting," Percy added quickly. "So I thought perhaps a picnic or something, or even simply lunch. But as he is quite close with my employers, not to mention a fully grown man—"

"Blaise will find it hysterical," Astoria said. "Believe me, he'll love it. I can give you his phone number if you like."

"Oh. Ah." Percy's cheeks were blazing. "Well, I was… I just thought I'd—"

"You're overthinking it," Padma assured him, to which he gave her a look that was a mix of _thank god_ and also _are you sure?_ to which she replied with an arched brow of _calm your tits, Weasley_. "If Mr Zabini finds it inappropriate," she added with a lofty tone of aristocratic mockery, "I'm sure he'll simply find a tactful way to decline."

"He won't, though," Astoria said, typing something into her iPad. "Here, I've just shared his contact information with you."

"Oh, well… thank you," Percy said helplessly, glancing down as the message popped up on his screen. "I should be going, then," he announced, and dismounted Padma's desk in a sudden, awkward bluster, as if he'd only just remembered he needed to be elsewhere.

Classic Percy, Padma thought with an inward sigh.

Astoria watched him go, shaking her head. "I've somehow made it worse, haven't I?" she murmured to herself.

The answer was yes, but not for any normal reasons. "He's fundamentally strange," Padma assured her. "I think asking for help is just about the least Percy thing in existence."

Astoria frowned. "But he didn't ask."

"Well yes, precisely," Padma confirmed, "so now it's a mix of generic male behavior patterns along with Percy-specific mortification. He'll come around," she offered in reassurance, though Astoria gave her a look of supreme doubt. "Really," Padma insisted, "he needed your help before, and he needs it again now. Nobody ever thanks the person who gives them a push until after they've regained perspective," she added.

"I suppose not," Astoria agreed with a grimace, and shrugged. "In any case, Hermione's copy was delivered to her electronically—it's just that the Palace is still somewhere in the Napoleanic wars, technology-wise."

"I'll have Snape set up a training," Padma said, making a mental note. "Surely His Majesty can be convinced."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Is it just me, or have you found the Palace to be exceedingly obstinate these days? They rejected a dress that was barely off-the-shoulder," Astoria pointed out with a pursed look of irritation. "And losing their precious paper copies is nothing compared to how they'll respond to the idea of Hermione doing something vulgar, like appearing in a film."

"Documentary," Padma corrected, perhaps a bit too defensively. She'd been working for months on securing a contract that pleased Abraxas' offices, which was… a tedious process. They found certain topics inappropriate for commentary—acknowledging victims of human trafficking, for example, meant acknowledging there was a flaw creating the victims in the first place. Buckingham Palace preferred to live in a world where such things simply did not exist if one did not speak openly about them.

"You know as well as I do that the Palace won't see the difference," Astoria said, though thankfully she didn't press the issue. "Anyway, how's it going with the development program? I thought the meeting you took last week went well."

"Oh, it's… coming along," Padma said, looking away, and Astoria straightened, seeming to have caught onto something.

"I knew it," she said triumphantly to no one. "They're courting you, aren't they?"

"No, they're not _courting_ me—"

"But they offered you the vacant director position?"

"I…" Padma broke off. "It wasn't an offer, it was a nudge," she said firmly, busying herself with some imaginary dust on her desk. "Not even that, really, it was more of a _hint_—"

"You'd be freer if you worked for someone else, you know," Astoria pointed out.

To that, Padma looked up, amused. "Are you concerned for my freedom?"

In response, Astoria gave a rare glimpse of unpreparedness, hesitating for a fraction of a second.

"I just think it's only a matter of time before you tire of having your hands tied," she said. "It's not as if this is the most progressive office in the country, and you're—"

She stopped.

"You think I'll leave?" Padma prompted curiously, folding her arms over her chest and leaning back in her chair.

"No, I—" Now it was Astoria's cheeks that flushed ever so slightly. A faint glow of coral that matched perfectly with her dress, like a carefully chosen accessory. "I just want you to feel you have options."

"You seem quite eager to push me out the door," Padma noted, half-teasing, though she kept her expression solemn. Admittedly, she enjoyed watching Astoria get flustered; it didn't happen often, and it gave her a little thrill. To be the one to unnerve Astoria Poliakoff, famously sensible and poised, was occasionally irresistible to Padma.

"I just don't want you to miss out on any opportunities, that's all." Astoria took a backwards step towards the door. "Obviously I want you to stay, but—"

"Will _you_ stay?" Padma asked, and at that, Astoria froze.

They had not discussed Astoria's change in dietary habits or the frequency with which she excused herself. They had not discussed the fact that this was obviously of some personal strain for Astoria, about whom most of the office was quietly and cattily judgmental. The worst and most vocal of the staffers felt the Poliakoff marriage was doomed, and suspected that Astoria must have done something drastic in order to save it. The argument seemed to be that posh girls bred for noble marriages had been doing the same thing for centuries, so why should this one be any different?

But Astoria _was_ different, inarguably so in Padma's mind, even with the many ways she was the same. She was already different for being among them, considering she had always been too wealthy to need a job. Privileged though Astoria's position happened to be—her hours were less demanding than Padma's or Percy's, and she was known publicly as Hermione's stylist rather than her assistant—it was unquestionably clear that Astoria, a Greengrass and a Poliakoff both, did not need it. Once she'd had a baby, the others assumed she would become a mother and a full-time woman of society, perhaps a philanthropist if she got suitably bored. Nobody considered her a permanent fixture.

Except for Padma, who knew better. Or thought she did.

The question sank to the floor in the space between them as Astoria suddenly became brisk, receding into her usual pretense. "I should go," she said, gesturing over her shoulder. "I'm hoping to secure the Crown jewels for next month's gala before Hermione gets back from Norfolk."

Astoria's job was to curate Hermione's femininity. Her sartorial choices, her outward image, all of that was in Astoria's hands. Astoria was Hermione's mask, her daily choreographer, and there was a reason she was so good at it. No one but a person with Astoria's secrets could know with such unfaltering intuition how to live a lovely lie.

"Let me know if there's anything you need from me," Padma said, and then clarified slowly, "Paperwork or anything."

Astoria's smile warped. "Of course," she said, returning without further comment to her work.

* * *

"So what is it you actually _do_?" asked Tracey that evening. They'd met up at a relatively trendy cocktail bar, which was a decision that now filled Padma with regret. She and Tracey were still dressed as they had been for work, Padma in a suit with fashionable slim-fitting trousers and Tracey in a sleek pencil dress that flaunted her toned shoulders and shapely hips, but the rest of the bar was filled with young twenty-somethings on rowdy group outings and playful first dates.

"Well, about thirty-percent of my job is directing the activities, ideologies, and budget of a thriving non-profit," Padma said, taking a sip of her Manhattan. "Another third is an elaborate game of telephone wherein I convince a group of old, stodgy men that I do actually need them to respond directly to me and _not_ my male associates even though their suspicions that I am not a man are unfortunately correct—" (Pause for another sip.) "And the final third," she concluded, "is being told not to worry my pretty head about silly things like 'human rights' or 'the feminist agenda,' and therefore scrambling for an alternative when they inevitably refuse."

Tracey, who was already girlishly tipsy, giggled. "And here I thought you just wrote a few speeches."

"I probably would if I worked for another royal, but Hermione writes her own and so does Draco," Padma said, happy to drop the HRH titles for the time being. "I pass an eye over Hermione's, of course, before I submit them to the Palace for approval, but mostly my time is occupied with other things."

Tracey's attention slid elsewhere, probably uninterested in hearing any further praise of Hermione. (She hadn't said much outside of laughing outright when Padma accepted the job to begin with, saying she hadn't pinned Padma as the type to crave a career as some kind of glorified royal publicist.)

"What about you?" Padma asked Tracey. "Are you president of Rosier Hotels yet?"

"Not yet," Tracey said, taking a sip of her wine. "Though they're considering me for a board position."

"Really?" Padma asked, surprised. She'd been joking when she brought it up. Not that it was surprising information to hear Tracey was being considered for a promotion of any kind, but it was almost certainly a little light nepotism. Tracey had only been working for Rosier Hotels for about a year, and before that she'd worked in media, not hospitality. She wasn't exactly a preeminent hotelier unless that qualification was passed by blood (though, what could be more classically posh than that particular delusion?).

"Yeah. It's… I know." Tracey looked away. "I mean, I do like it."

"That's a start," Padma said, rather than asking _Which part?_

"Actually, they're asking if I wouldn't mind moving to America for a year or so," she murmured, fidgeting with her glass.

"Oh?" That was a surprise. Tracey loved London, and even after moving out of her flat with Blaise, she hadn't left their neighborhood.

"Well, they opened a Rosier hotel in Manhattan, and now they're thinking of opening one in San Francisco." She sipped her wine again. "I lived in Palo Alto for a bit while I studied abroad, so… I suppose it makes sense."

Padma suffered a little tug of disheartening unpleasantness. "Would you do it?"

"Of course not," Tracey said matter-of-factly. "I want to have a baby and the father would live here. I wouldn't subject my child to that."

"Oh, right." Padma exhaled. "Right, of course." She paused before asking, "Have you spoken with him about it?"

"The offer? No," Tracey said. "I don't really think it's any of his business."

"Isn't it?"

"Not until he makes up his mind."

"Ah. Right."

Padma swallowed a little more of her cocktail while Tracey fingered the stem of her glass.

"Let's go somewhere else," Tracey announced restlessly, to which Padma couldn't help a moment of relief. "Somewhere we can take shots."

"Shots?" Padma echoed with a laugh. "And here I thought we were aging gracefully."

"Not tonight," Tracey assured her, rising to her feet. "Tonight we're going to cling to our youth with the pathetic fervor of two delusional spinsters."

"Well, when you put it that way," Padma said with a laugh, summoning the bill. "This round of adulting is on me," she said, adding, "The preeminent Rosier fortune can foot the rest of the night."

"Oh, indubitably. To youth," Tracey posed as a toast, raising her glass, "and to stupidity, and irresponsibility, and whatever else comes along with still being safely on the appealing side of thirty."

"For now," Padma contributed, and Tracey groaned.

"That? _That_," Tracey said, "is exactly the sort of doomsday proclamation we're dismissing henceforth." She downed the rest of her wine and slid her phone from her purse, checking for nearby clubs and ignoring Padma's commentary that she didn't go to clubs anymore (and barely knew who Drake was).

"In my mind, Kanye's still excellent," Padma protested as Tracey gave her hand a laughing tug, dragging her into the night.

It was quite fun, actually, despite the fact that it was too hot for a blazer, so now Padma had to hold it while she danced. (It was not very often that one found the perfect blazer, and she could not bear to lose this one the same way she had lost the cheap pumps or beaded clutches from her uni years.) She recognized almost none of the music, having no interest in EDM or the headaches it inspired, but it was fun to be there with Tracey, and to be exuberant about life again. She took shots because it was Friday, gladly assuming the subsequent hangover would be Future Padma's problem. She would simply take paracetamol when she got home and concern herself with electrolytes in the morning. Maybe she'd even go for a run tomorrow, or cook something plant-based in the cramped kitchen of her single-room flat that had not had a man in it for some time apart from Terence.

Did that matter? Of course not, because having a man in her space had always meant a mess, a completely illogical organization of books on the shelves and a baseless opposition to the paintings she bought or a dismissive eye roll at her decorative pillows. Padma mentioned this to Tracey, whose eyes screwed tight when she laughed aloud, saying she finally had room for her shoes without Blaise.

"I watch the television I want to," Tracey shouted in Padma's ear while they danced. One of Padma's hands was in Tracey's while the other held her blazer, the rest of her now gloriously, humidly hot. "And I never have to worry about when he wants to eat, or if he wants attention—"

"Did you know I used to lock myself in the bathroom so I could masturbate in peace?" Padma yelled back, and Tracey briefly laughed so hard she cried.

"It's underrated," Tracey bellowed, wiping liquid from her eyes. "Being alone. I used to hate me, but now I have to live with her and… you know what? She's really not so bad," she declared, looking weepy again.

"I know she isn't!" shouted Padma, who was exuberant with something, flush with positivity and optimism and whatever else magically cropped up when one had drunk an excess of tequila. "I've known that for years!"

"What?" yelled Tracey.

Padma leaned closer, speaking in Tracey's ear. "I've known that for years," she repeated, Tracey's hands tightening around her wrists. "I used to have such a crush on you," she confessed by accident, deciding once it left her mouth that whatever followed would be Future Padma's problem, too.

"A crush on _me_?" asked Tracey, disbelieving. "Shut up! Because of that kiss?"

Padma's entire being sparkled with satisfaction. "You remember that?"

"Of course I remember!"

Padma surged with energy, thrumming with the pleasure of confirmation. "You've never given yourself enough credit," she said to Tracey, who threw her head back and laughed again, their bodies briefly colliding.

"It's hot," said Tracey, her blonde hair plastered to her cheek when she finally straightened. "Let's go outside."

As Tracey took Padma's hand again and tugged her away from the club's rollicking dance floor, Padma thought with swirling concentration that she liked this, being led places. This was the problem with her. She had convictions, ideals, even intelligence if she were being flattering, but absolutely no direction. This was why she'd been with Terence for so long, because he was older and ambitious and very clear on what he wanted his life to be. This was why Padma liked working for Hermione, too. Padma had an understanding of how to make other people the best possible versions of themselves, but she had almost no idea what to be on her own. It was why she admired Tracey Davis and felt a kinship with Astoria Poliakoff, because it was such a silly, stupid curse to feel so full of potential while knowing she was only meant to be something small: a cog in a giant, capsizing wheel.

"Why me?" Tracey asked outside, her shoulders glistening with sweat.

"I think you're beautiful," Padma said whimsically, taking a lock of Tracey's hair between her fingers. "And you tasted so sweet."

"Did I?"

"You're also very punctual," Padma said, and didn't quite notice when Tracey's hands slid around her face. "It's always such nonsense when people can't be bothered to be on time."

"Padma—"

"I also like how you always choose the best thing on the menu," Padma said, becoming distantly aware of Tracey kissing her. She didn't have to bend down or rise on her toes at all, which she liked immensely, pleased with the glory of their symmetry. It was very nearly narcissism, Padma's attraction to women. She liked their shapes to resemble her own so that in bed they'd be like mirrors of each other. "And I like your taste in textiles," Padma whispered, running her fingers along the buttery softness of Tracey's dress.

"Shut up," said Tracey, and kissed her again. Padma wondered briefly if Tracey felt the same way she had before, that it was too much pull and not enough push, or if maybe Padma had improved since then and had just been bad at it the first time. She rested a hand on Tracey's right breast, smoothing over it, and then flicked at the nipple through Tracey's bra (expertly, in Padma's opinion), which must have been a mistake, because Tracey pulled away with a gasp.

"Wait," said Tracey, which in Padma's experience was not a good thing. "Wait, wait—"

"What?" asked Padma, elation swiftly curdling.

"I… no, no," said Tracey adamantly, shaking her head. "I'm… I'm supposed to be a grown up. I want… I want a baby, I want to be a mother, I shouldn't be snogging on the sidewalk like I'm fucking seventeen again—"

"We can be grown-ups in my bed," said Padma.

But at that precise moment, Padma could see it settling in; the reality that she'd kissed a girl who'd been straight an hour ago and who was _still_ straight, even if vodka had made her "adventurous." Which meant that Padma had kissed her closest female friend and then she'd propositioned her for sex and now things would be extremely fucking awkward, because neither of them were drunk enough to forget she'd brought it up. Tracey had probably wanted to make out a little and then joke about it—remember that time we got so drunk we kissed, that sort of thing—but that wasn't what had happened for Padma.

Inner Padma had let herself out, and she knew at a glance that Tracey didn't want her, so she decided not to wait for whatever either of them did next.

"Actually, you know what? I should go," Padma said, stumbling a little towards a taxi.

"Padma," Tracey said, a moment or two delayed. "Padma, wait—"

But Padma knew that Tracey wasn't actually going to chase after her. She wanted the movie moment, the "wait wait don't go" that didn't actually involve any effort. Padma slid into the taxi and tried very hard not to slur when she gave the driver Terence's address.

Terence was always very good about being there for her when Padma was drunk and lonely, which she definitely was right now. She hadn't lied to Tracey or herself—she enjoyed having her own space, and she really did like being alone—but occasionally she wanted to be held, to be comforted, to be touched, because even a feminist whose mother thought she ought to settle down and have children was still capable of loneliness at times. She was still a woman—a _person_—and people had needs! Was that such a bloody crime?

_Yes_, Padma's inner pragmatist reminded her, her stomach lurching when the taxi pulled up to Terence's flat. Yes, it was slightly criminal, if not a total romantic crime.

So instead she pulled out her phone and dialed, letting out a sigh of relief when the other end picked up.

* * *

"I'm so sorry about this," Padma said, setting her purse down on what was undoubtedly an expensive side table. Astoria, who was hanging Padma's blazer neatly by the door, glanced over with a pleasantly judgmental smile. "I'm afraid I rather selfishly needed a friend."

"Don't worry about it," Astoria assured her, still looking a bit wicked, as if she planned to tease Padma about this at some point in the future. "I wasn't asleep or anything, so no harm done. And Alex is out of town anyway."

"Again," Padma observed aloud, mostly by accident.

Astoria's frame went slightly rigid.

"Sorry," Padma said quickly, and then sank into the sofa. "God, I should've just gone to bed," she moaned into her hands. "I'm only going to say something stupid."

"What's stupid about the truth?" Astoria countered, dropping onto the opposite end of the sofa. "Yes, he's away again, and it's no secret he's away a lot." She gestured to the television set. "So should we watch something idiotic? Some properly romantic farce?"

"Honestly, I doubt I'd be able to pay attention," Padma said, suffering a bit from some temporary spins.

"Well." Astoria glanced around, humming a little in thought. "Hungry, then?"

"You're an absolute fucking goddess," said Padma in confirmation, and Astoria rose to her feet with a chuckle, shaking her head as she went.

She returned with a devoutly prepared cheese plate, which she explained had been for one of Alex's recent dinner parties, and a spread of all sorts of snack foods that were neither greasy nor ice cream but were still vastly appealing in Padma's drunken opinion. It was all so elegant, so tastefully curated, and so very Astoria, flawless from conception to design. Padma licked a bit of bergamino di bufalo from her thumb that was so utterly divine she now felt completely and blissfully satiated, to the point where even her sexual appetite had managed to calm.

"If this is what you're like all the time, why would he ever leave?" Padma groaned in consummate contentment, melting inelegantly into the sofa's perfect cushions.

"I imagine it might have something to do with the money," Astoria said in an ironic tone.

"Well, I should hope not," Padma scoffed, "seeing as that's the sort of thing that never changes. A man who can't be satisfied with this amount of money," she said, flicking a hand around Astoria's opulent townhouse, "will never be satisfied with _any_ amount of money, believe me. That's a man who can't be satisfied, period."

"I know," Astoria said simply. "Or at least… I know it now," she clarified, quieter.

Padma froze, sober enough at this point to know that Astoria had just confessed something to her that she had never told anyone else. Not knowing what else to do, Padma slowly sat up, staring down at the cheese plate she'd all but devoured.

"You can tell me," Padma said.

Astoria didn't answer.

"Or I can go," Padma said quickly, rising to her feet and trying to remember what the flying fuck she'd done with her blazer. "Or… whatever you want me to do," she said, abruptly pained. "If you want me to listen or shut up, either way I can just—"

"I do think he loves me," Astoria remarked, staring into nothing. "Or the idea of me. He definitely loves being loved by me, which might not be the same thing."

She looked very young, almost childlike, and Padma waited quietly, focusing her attention on the cheese knife still in her hand.

"He thinks I love the Beatles," Astoria said.

Then, without warning, she burst into tears.

Padma, who had absolutely no idea what that meant, let the knife fall from her hand with a clatter regardless, lunging sideways so there would be somewhere soft for Astoria's melancholy to land.

For several minutes Astoria emptied out in Padma's arms, and during that time Padma became incredibly, painfully sober. She felt her head pound warningly and also, became increasingly conscious of the way Astoria smelled, which was classically floral and which would surely now linger on Padma's skin for the rest of the night. She became aware of how small Astoria was, how dangerously thin, and how her bones felt so tiny they were like bird bones or oversized matches. Astoria's elbows were folded into her sides like wings while she sobbed, gutted, until she could no longer hold herself upright.

Padma made the shushing sounds, familiar calming noises. She rubbed Astoria's back and tried not to think about the way she could feel every sharp notch below her hands. She became aware that the woman in her arms was a rich man's wife and some other rich man's daughter and that someone had been neglecting her, then and now. Someone had not done this often enough, and someone had failed to prepare her for how lonely life could be. Astoria must have believed that marriage would mean she would never feel this way again, and this, the expulsion of whatever she'd kept to herself for two years, was not the sadness of having been wrong. It was the heartbreak of knowing better.

"Is it other women?" Padma murmured.

Astoria, who had probably sobbed out most of her hydration by then, was trembling uncontrollably in Padma's arms. "I don't know," she managed through chattering teeth. "Probably."

"Bastard," Padma said vitriolically.

"It's not… it's not that, not really." Astoria straightened, pulling away as Padma released her. "It's…"

She trailed off.

"The Beatles?" prompted Padma, and Astoria laughed weakly, her eyes swollen and small.

"The first month we were dating he took me somewhere very classic, very elegant. I remember I was wearing the perfect dress for it." She gave Padma a helpless shrug. "I just felt so right, as if I'd camouflaged myself perfectly, I'd made myself part of his world. He pulled me to my feet and told me he'd asked the band to play my favorite song: _In My Life_."

She inhaled shakily, then exhaled.

"I realized that I could never tell him my actual favorite song was _Best Song Ever_ by One Direction," she said, and burst into tears again, only this time her tears were slightly more hysterical and also they were dry, and Padma realized that she was laughing, and that Padma was also laughing, her hand clutching at her side while they slid from the sofa to the floor.

"Oh—my—god," Padma exhaled, or tried to, and Astoria's face, frozen in a laugh that seemingly would not end, was scrunched up and mottled, thoroughly unlovely.

"I love it," she managed to say. "Seriously, I do. It's mortifying to admit at my age, but it's just, like…"

"The best song ever?" guessed Padma, the two of them erupting in uncontrollable laughter once again.

"I just…" Astoria wiped at her eyes again, still catching her breath. "It's not just about him, or that he's hurting me or just careless or… I don't know. It doesn't matter. He's just the product of the truth."

"Which is?" Padma prompted.

"That I worked so hard at becoming this," Astoria said with a reference to herself, "because I thought if I did everything properly, I'd be happy. And it's not even that I built my life on someone who doesn't particularly care who I really am," she exhaled. "It's that I wouldn't know how to be her even if he wanted me to."

She hugged her knees into her chest and Padma felt a thump of pain.

This was precisely the thing Padma had always tried not to concern herself with when it came to her personal life. Everyone, she thought, was too busy trying to _be_ something, so much so that it distracted them from the important things in life, which were deeds. What did it matter what a person was if they did good things, or so she had thought. Or rather, so Padma had convinced herself in order to survive; in order to make her existence palatable, despite the jaggedness of her desires—a meaningful career, an honest love affair, a calling to rise her from her bed each morning and deliver her serenely to sleep at night—which she knew, pragmatically, would never align with what she really was.

The fact that the tragedy in Astoria's life was not her unfaithful husband or his inattention or his absence but the lack of herself should not have made sense to Padma, but it did. Because she, too, had an inner Padma that nobody had learned to love, and that was what constantly filled her mind, what kept her from having a passion or a direction. She could do as much as she wanted and it would never be enough.

"I care," Padma said.

Astoria turned to look at her, half a smile playing over her pretty mouth.

"I know you do," she said.

* * *

"You're being an idiot," Padma said on Monday. The Waleses were back from their annual jaunt to the Nott estate and it was a bluster of activity in the office, though of course there was always time for an overdue dressing-down.

"In what way? And please be specific," Percy said. "If left to my own devices the list will quickly get out of hand."

Padma rose to her feet with a roll of her eyes. "Say thank you to Astoria," she said, elbowing him until he shot her a glare. "It's absurd you're being so ridiculously masculine about this."

"My brothers will happily assure you I've never been masculine in my life," he muttered.

"We don't have time for your complexes, Weasley. Your parents had more children than they could keep track of," she said, ignoring his impending protestations, "and therefore attention is both your deepest desire and your greatest fear. But that doesn't mean you have to run around being ungrateful to people who try to help you."

"It's incredibly rude for you to psychoanalyze me to my face," he said, adjusting his glasses. "At least do it behind my back like a normal person."

"She's kind," Padma said. "She's thoughtful. She saw a way to help you and she did it without having to be asked. Some people would call those virtues," she added pointedly, "not reasons to behave like a jumpy tortoise during our morning briefings."

"I suppose you're right." Grudgingly, Percy exhaled, glancing down at her from the side of his spectacles. "You're sure it wouldn't be odd if I thanked her now? Belatedly?"

"Of course it will be odd," Padma said. "It's you, and you'll make it odd. We can't concern ourselves with every eventuality, Weasley, we don't have the time."

"You're very pleasant to be around. Has anyone ever told you that?" he asked.

"Almost daily. So are you and Will picnicking with Zabini, then?" she prompted.

"It's been arranged," Percy replied evasively, which Padma could tell was all she was going to get on the subject.

"Well by god, Weasley, enough about your personal life," she declared, playfully abandoning him in the hallway with a wink and stepping into Hermione's office instead.

"Hi," Padma said, poking her head in as Hermione looked up, distracted, from her computer. "How was your birthday?"

"Oh, you know. Only one or two existential crises," Hermione replied in something authentically close to cheer. "Actually it was lovely, aside from a small child trying to hog the spotlight," she joked in reference to Teddy, the Grimmaulds' now one-year-old spawn, before her mood suddenly darkened. "Did you see Bagman's trying to make this whistle-blower thing about corruption again?" she said, gesturing to what must have been a news site. "I wish I could have higher hopes about this impeachment inquiry," she muttered to herself. "I know it's probably too much to hope for, given how positively slavish the Republican party has been for the last three years. Still, with all this Umbridge nonsense I just hoped that—"

She trailed off, frowning at whatever she happened to be scrolling through, which Padma couldn't imagine was anything very helpful to her general sense of morale.

"Speaking of Teddy," Padma cut in, suddenly remembering something she'd intended to bring up, "I meant to ask. Did the Duke and Duchess's office release any details from the trip?"

"No," said Hermione, looking up with a frown. "Percy told me there were paparazzi photos from outside the estate, but I still can't see how they'd have known where we were."

"Well, I suppose it's possible it was a lucky guess," Padma said with a shrug. "You _are_ known to visit the Nott estate around this time of year."

"So you don't think it's a leak?" Hermione said.

"Certainly not on our end," Padma said firmly. Padma wasn't overly fond of the office's highest Chief of Staff, but Snape's awareness of her ambivalence and his subsequent effort not to overload her with his presence endeared her to him greatly. They rarely spoke, but no one could say he wasn't exceedingly adept at his job. "Snape runs a tight ship."

"I believe it," Hermione agreed, and then frowned. "Someone in the Grimmauld offices, then? Or their personal household," she added uneasily.

"Possibly," Padma said, recognizing the look of calculation on Hermione's face. "Though I'm sure it's a matter of keen observation rather than anyone with sinister intentions. But we'll keep an eye out."

"Thanks," Hermione said with a sigh. "By the way, have you seen Astoria this morning? It's odd," she murmured half to herself, "but she seems a bit better, doesn't she?"

"Does she?" asked Padma neutrally.

"She just seems more at ease or something," Hermione said, tilting her head in thought. "Or maybe I just want to think so."

"Mm, perhaps," Padma said, moving on. "Anyway, shall we pencil in a time this afternoon to discuss your upcoming appearances? I'm spending the rest of the morning bullying the Palace operatives into answering my calls."

"Oh yes, of course. Oh but Padma, how was your weekend?" asked Hermione, pausing Padma in the doorway.

Padma's mind flashed unpleasantly through her kiss with Tracey to every disastrous and faulty instinct that had followed, for which her penance had been a full weekend of laundry, finally getting around to cleaning her bathroom, and hunting down the exact cheese she had eaten at Astoria's.

"Oh, fine," she said brightly. "Just sat around at home, mostly."

"Well, that sounds like a dream," Hermione declared, before groaning when her phone rang. "Sorry, Padma, we'll chat this afternoon—"

"Yes, of course. Door closed?" Hermione nodded and Padma departed into the corridor, passing Astoria's office as she went.

"Hello again," she said, pausing in the door frame. "Want to do lunch?"

Astoria looked up, surprised. "Really, you have time?"

"Well, someone's got to feed you," Padma said, having already determined she would make time. "We can round up some lean meats and leafy greens, if you like." They exchanged an amicable set of smiles, which Padma took for a yes. "Alright, it's settled then," she said, and turned to leave, though Astoria paused her before she could.

"You didn't speak to Percy, did you?" she asked. "He came in earlier and was very strange and then he left."

_Oh Percy_, Padma sighed internally. "I'm sure all he meant to do was thank you."

"I did get that, sort of."

"Well, good. What you did for him—what you _continue_ to do for him," Padma corrected herself, "is very kind. You clearly care about him, and I'm sure all he meant to do was show a bit of gratitude."

"Right," said Astoria, half-smiling. "So you _did_ speak to him, then."

"Nonsense," Padma assured her. "I haven't the faintest idea why I'd do any such thing."

She turned to walk into her office with what she knew to be a smile on her face. Ironic, really, knowing she had sent an apology message to Tracey yesterday that had received a hyper-enthusiastic "don't be!" that would plague them both for several weeks, if not eternally. That was one long friendship down the drain and an unrequited crush gone with it, not to mention a bit of a new one Padma wished she didn't have. Must be one of those fundamental laws of physics—one crush must always be replaced by another, dumber crush.

Padma sat down at her computer, contemplating which dreadful Buckingham Palace courtier to start with when Astoria stepped into her office, closing the door behind her.

"Someone ought to thank you too, you know," Astoria said, inexplicably serious.

"I keep saying that," joked Padma, setting the phone back down on the receiver before noting the odd expression on Astoria's face. "Is everything alright?" she asked, frowning. "Because if you need me t-"

But before she could finish the sentence, Astoria had crossed the room and shoved Padma's chair back from her desk. Padma blinked, temporarily frozen with captivity, and Astoria took a breath like she was diving into open ocean, bending over Padma's chair until their lips nearly met—not quite, but very, very nearly.

Padma inhaled sharply, rigid with surprise, and waited. Astoria's lips were the opposite, pliant and soft and parted as if any moment, even a light breeze, would mean the relief of inevitable contact—but then it was over like that, like a blink, too soon.

Astoria pulled away and Padma stared at her. She had the distant, unprovable sensation that a different outcome of this moment—mirrored versions of this precise fantasy—had crossed both of their minds before.

Unlike with Tracey, something had happened here. The kiss Astoria hadn't given her was more palpable than if they'd touched, and the air between them was complicit in everything Padma's failure to pull away had so obviously suggested.

"I have to get back to Hermione," Astoria said hoarsely. "Will we talk later?"

If there was more to the question than Astoria was asking, Padma didn't mind.

"Yes," Padma said, her inner self singing with pleasure. Yes, I feel certain we will.

* * *

I suppose being of no interest to general society has its benefits from time to time. It's not _my_ life being torn apart by Gilderoy Lockhart or Rita Skeeter, after all, and in fact, no one's in any rush to come for me whatsoever. I'm an afterthought, at best an embellishment in someone else's more interesting story, and for that I have the benefit of a quiet life. A nearly normal one, if I want it, with my pragmatic interests and my healthy hobbies and my predilection for good deeds. Maybe this is why I've never felt driven to anything—why it never mattered how I felt or who I felt it for—because it always seemed as if it made no difference to anyone what passions I chose to explore.

Unfortunately, recent events may require an unfamiliar sense of ownership. After a lifetime of feeling invisible, am I supposed to now ignore how it feels to be seen?

Yes. Yes, definitely.

But it's possible that choosing wisely is no longer my greatest concern.

* * *

_**a/n: **__If you've never gone out of your way to support Black creators before, please consider picking up a book by a Black author (ideally a woman) as your next TBR! Black lives matter and so do their voices. Also, while educating ourselves about prejudice is important, so is exposure to stories of Black love, magic, and joy—you can check my twitter for lists of Black-authored SFF and romance in addition to a plethora of informative anti-racist reads._

_In other news, episode one of the __**Clara and the Devil**_ _webcomic, my latest collaboration with Little Chmura, released today as part of the Webtoons Short Story Contest. I am always loath to ask favors, particularly now when there are so many other creators to promote, but if you have a chance to check it out, I'd really appreciate it. Little Chmura has worked SO hard for this (seriously, she pulled multiple all-nighters) so please take a look and share, comment, etc., if you're able—full disclosure, judging is based on audience participation. You can find links on any of my social media. Thank you so much for reading—I'd like to wrap this story up in the near future, so I'll try to be back soon!_


	10. A Question of Details and Accessories

**Chapter 10: A Question of Details and Accessories**

_**DAILY PROPHET  
**__**ProphetOnline**_

_Is the Princess of Wales as workshy as Palace sources claim, or does she simply delight in flouting royal protocol? Amid allegations that Hermione Granger will not be joining her husband the Prince of Wales to fulfill the traditional role of a female royal bestowing ceremonial honours, criticism of the American Princess continues to grow. Is she "too much," as some private sources claim, or is she simply not enough?_

_2:32 PM - 19 Nov 2019  
__**1K**_ _Retweets __**1.4K **__Likes_

_** mollywobbles7  
**__Replying to __** ProphetOnline**_

_If the royals are breaking with good traditions then what are they even here for?_

_3:17 PM - 19 Nov 2019  
__**2**_ _Retweets __**19 **__Likes_

_** Big_D_  
**__Replying to __** mollywobbles7 **__and __** ProphetOnline**_

_well she has done it last year, she's probably still having a lie-in to recover_

_3:19 PM - 19 Nov 2019  
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If Pansy were here she'd probably remark something about how sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, though I doubt that particular pearl of wisdom would matter much to someone as witless as Dudley Dursley. He has a number of popular catchphrases when it comes to his cousin by marriage, all of which consist of mockery. "Perfect Pansy," he often taunts in a sniveling voice, intending to suggest she's inauthentic and prissy, unaware that those of us who know better are already aware that she is. The annoying bit is that he thinks _he_ has a right to complain about those things, when in reality, Pansy's miraculous ability to not break down in public is something that every woman, myself included, probably dreams about at night. It's as enviable as it is infuriating, which is a dichotomy that I'm comfortably certain Dudley Dursley couldn't begin to understand. If anyone should complain, it should be every woman who's ever looked at Pansy and hated her for wishing they could be a little more like her.

Which isn't to say that any of this is really about Pansy, or even really about me (despite the fact that it is clearly me these tweets have all shown up to heckle). For what it's worth, there's really no reason for a female royal to be "bestowing" anything, particularly since it's Draco who's much more relevant to the event—but of course they would rather have seen me pinning flowers on military veterans in Yorkshire than speaking with female refugees in London. "What do people want from me?" seems to be an ongoing question that even Percy Weasley can't puzzle out, and though the answers seem easy enough at first glance (have a baby, be a wife and mother, smile when I'm told, have shiny hair, never complain, never explain) I have my doubts that even those achievements would ease this kind of criticism.

After all, at what point does this stop being about me? I'm a figurehead who was already disqualified from my position by birth but went on to snatch it away from better, posher women anyway, so perhaps my mother is right, and I'll just have to accept that I'll never be beloved. But is it really me these people all seem to hate, or would they hate any woman in my position? Or for that matter, would they hate my position, regardless of who I am? To what degree can I actually hope to be accepted, and how much of my reputation is legitimately mine to control?

I don't have an answer to this, of course, or to anything. In fact it's starting to feel as if I have no forking control over anything at all.

* * *

_October 15, 2019  
__Kensington Palace, London, England_

On Dr Pomfrey's advice, they were calling it a sadness ritual. "It's perfectly fine to feel sadness," Dr Pomfrey had said. "Necessary, even. Sadness is natural, and catharsis is key. The trick is to process the sorrow until it no longer feels so much like hopelessness or pain."

Dr Pomfrey then went on to say that as far as she could tell, there was nothing medically wrong with either Hermione or Draco, which somehow managed to be both a relief and a devastating blow. "Physically, you're perfectly healthy," Dr Pomfrey concluded, gently closing the medical file and reaching out to do something that very few people ever did anymore, which was to touch Hermione's hand. "Emotionally, however, there may be some room for improvement."

In Hermione's mind, this was rather a worst case scenario, given that an anatomical deficiency would be far easier to remedy. True, it definitely wasn't _bad_ news, but it required Hermione to do something she had never been very proficient with, which was to wrangle her feelings of disappointment in a normal way. "If I may," Dr Pomfrey had suggested when Hermione lethargically mentioned something along those lines, "I understand that both you and His Highness are very accomplished individuals. Perhaps you expect to 'achieve' something, and therefore blame yourself when you do not?" To Hermione's conspicuous silence, Dr Pomfrey went on, "I would advise that you establish a ritual of some kind that allows you to communicate your feelings without letting them become shame or guilt." Then, playfully, she filled a prescription with a corresponding note: _Find a way to be sad together_, followed by a smiley face and her private line.

So, when Hermione got her period for the ninth time since deciding to begin the process of conceiving a royal heir, she and Draco undertook their first sadness ritual, which they agreed should be a quiet night at home. Both silenced their mobile phones, made their excuses to their respective assistants, and dismissed most of their staff early, deciding to make dinner together as they might have done a decade ago at uni, which now felt exceedingly distant indeed.

"Are we supposed to do something specific, do you think?" asked Draco, who popped a sliced cucumber into his mouth while Hermione set about chopping onions.

"You're supposed to be letting those sweat," she sighed, and he smiled at her, sliding over to kiss her cheek until she leaned into his touch. He set his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder while she pretended to continue dicing, finding it more rewarding to stay where she was than to move. Dinner would be cooked eventually, but there was no telling when they'd next get a moment of peace.

"Want me to put on that new Taylor Swift album you've been listening to?" Draco asked, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You just want to hear the _London Boy_ song again, don't you?"

"Nonsense," he said, which was all but a yes. "Shall I run off and bechamel, then?" he asked, kissing her cheek. He had read correctly that she was in a bit of a sour mood, hence all the too-chipper offerings to be helpful. He'd already begun the process of disentangling himself to leave her to her dicing, but she caught his arm, holding it in place.

"Maybe not yet," she said.

She closed her eyes and felt Draco lean his cheek against the back of her head, his hands returning to where they'd been. There wouldn't be sex tonight, given her swollen breasts and the headache she'd thought at first was nausea—along with every other symptom she'd come to itemize with hypervigilance on the off-chance that it was one condition and not the other—so there was no possibility of escalation at the moment. Tonight, her husband's touch was soothing and calm, tender and tranquil, and the kitchen candle with its wafting scent of blackberry and rose filled her with a moment of deep, carnivorous yearning.

"I suppose I do feel a bit sad," she heard Draco murmur into her hair, and in answer she held him tighter, securing his arms more firmly around her ribs while she leaned—or perhaps sagged—against his chest.

When Hermione had first told Daphne about the sadness ritual, she'd been met with absolute confusion. "Why on earth would anyone want to feel sad on purpose?" Daphne had asked, bewildered, and what Hermione had not been able to express in words was the honesty of it, the sharedness and therefore the relief. If not for the sadness ritual, there would probably be the excruciating process of pretense: _of course it will happen, don't be silly I'm fine, of course I'm not upset. _There was the loneliness of carrying her grief alone, which she did not care to do anymore. She didn't want to watch Draco force his politician's voice and reassure her that everything would work itself out eventually, which she could never truly allow herself to believe. The acuteness of her discomfort every time she forced a smile was pushing her to something, a breaking point, which felt nearer each time she suffered a new and staggering loss of hope.

Compared to that, what was sadness?

"I suppose I'm a bit sad as well," Hermione said, in a voice that wobbled more than slightly, and Draco turned her in his arms until he could take her face in both hands, smiling wistfully down at her in a way that meant _I know, I know_.

"Shall I tell you how I'm feeling, then?" he attempted, and she nodded, still battling a bit of a lump in her throat. "Well, I have to admit I do feel a bit of uncertainty. I have the benefit of being unlikely to go to war over royal succession, mind you," he added for a weak attempt at levity, "but I suppose it never crossed my mind to wonder whether I… lacked something."

"It's not your fault," Hermione protested thinly, to which Draco arched a brow.

"Well it certainly isn't _your_ fault," he said, "so whose is it?"

"No one's," she murmured, which had not been something she had previously believed. At this particular moment, though, she couldn't stand the thought of Draco blaming himself for what amounted to an ongoing physiological disagreement. Absurdly, she pictured her uterus as an obstinate cat or possibly Pansy, sniffing its disapproval at her wishes.

"It really isn't anyone's fault," Hermione exhaled, and it wasn't a revelation, necessarily. Not an epiphany, but the motion of an idea inching its way into place. The key was fitting into some convoluted latch more cleanly now than it had managed in the past, which was… if not clarity, then progress.

"I feel," Hermione began, and then grimaced. "I feel as if I keep letting you down."

"But if it's not your fault, then how is that possible?" Draco replied neutrally.

"Logically speaking, there may be some flaws in my process," Hermione sighed. "Which I don't suppose you have an explanation for?"

"An explanation? No, not really," he said. "Though I can assure you that your perception of my feelings is inaccurate." He kissed her cheek swiftly, with the insignificance of a nod or a chuckle. It was all the truth and comfort of habit; of having loved her so long and so freely that there were no reservations left. "Truthfully, Hermione, I feel as if I've let you down."

"But you haven't." And he hadn't, not by an elusory inch. Not a single atom of her being—not even at her most selfish, or at her most resentful—could ever blame him.

But this was her fear, wasn't it, that he secretly felt this way about her? That privately, somewhere within the shadows of his expectations, he felt the weight of everything he'd given up for her. She sometimes imagined him cataloguing his disappointment the way she measured her own failures: hoarding it into miserly, Scrooge McDuckian piles of unrighted wrongs, locked into a vault of ungenerous things that he'd never say out loud because he was British, because he was Draco, because he'd already come too far to change his mind.

Looking at him now, she wondered why she'd built him up that way, as if there had to be some secret, spiteful Draco just because her own inner self was exacting and sometimes cruel. She forgot that the Draco in her head was not the real Draco at all, but just herself wearing a very crafty but still quite flimsy mask.

"You could never let me down, Hermione," Draco said, a thing he'd said many times but that had never made sense before, because it was so implausible, so unlikely that such a thing from anyone (about her, of all people!) could ever be true—and yet it was for him, wasn't it? Logic dictated that it had to be, because transversely, she felt the same. He bent his head, leaning to brush his lips over her knuckles, and she felt it again: the lock giving way. Nearly there now.

"We're just a bit sad, aren't we? Together," Draco said firmly, and this was what Hermione hadn't been able to explain to Daphne, but which Theo, who had been reading silently in the corner at the time, seemed to have grasped. He'd looked up when Daphne bustled out to find more biscuits and given Hermione a remarkably unironic look of approval.

"He's good at it," Theo had said without further explanation, and though Hermione hadn't gotten a chance to ask _At what_, she was certain now that she'd already known. She'd had some experience being loved by Draco, after all, so now she understood that he excelled at this, at loving her. He was good at making her feel that she could do things she couldn't trust herself to do around other people, such as allowing herself to cry noisily in his arms.

It was cathartic after all, the sadness, and the thing she hadn't expected was how blissful it could be compared to the months of building tension and clobbering stress. It was so much easier to cry about how bizarrely difficult it was to do something she'd thought would be simple than it was to carry her fear and shame alone, and she felt a wave of relief from the way he held her; as if he, too, were setting something down. As if he were trusting her to be as strong as he was, and equally as vulnerable, too. For once she didn't have to feel alone in her sadness, because he would always need the safety she gave to him just as much as she needed the comfort he gave to her.

Eventually she wiped her eyes and pulled away. "Onions," she managed in explanation, gesturing to her blotchy face.

Draco replied with a laugh, a bark of it, like he hadn't expected to feel joy so soon or so sharply. "Of course," he said, stroking her hair behind her ear and kissing her soundly on the forehead. "So, bechamel?"

She felt a new-old wave of something: the knowledge that the love between them was so rich and deep that there was a surplus of it somewhere, a fortune to be amply shared with someone else. _There is room for you here_, she thought to the baby her body couldn't give her yet, which she hoped it would give her someday, even if it wouldn't be today. Possibly it was something like a prayer or a mantra or a spell, but regardless of what the thought could be called, she let it go like a dandelion on the wind, floating onto a breeze of sad-turned-happy.

"Obviously bechamel," she informed him, feigning exasperation. "What do you take me for, some kind of former peasant?"

Then her laughter rang out in the kitchen while she suffered a punitive smack to her rear, both of them returning to the process of dinner.

* * *

Outside of Hermione's personal life was the usual low-hanging sense of doom, though she was far more accustomed to that. There were better weeks than others, of course, as with anything, but one thing she'd never quite understood about Draco's "profession" prior to marrying him was how little things actually changed. There were crises from time to time, like blips on a graph, but very seldom did Buckingham Palace seem to unclench from the sensation of bracing for the worst.

Brexit aside (a difficult thing to say, given the months of bickering that had become an unavoidable dread in the royal offices), approval of the monarchy had been on a steady decline since… Well, since "modernity," as Snape liked to remark in a dry voice that Hermione wasn't sure whether to call sarcastic. As much as the Crown was isolated for its apolitical significance in British governance, it was still inextricably tied to the tides of political favor, meaning that while nothing Hermione or Draco did impacted the country's laws or mandates, their approval was highly dependent on the larger political mood.

Essentially, Hermione's misconception had been that Draco's life consisted of periods of calm that were punctuated by brief instances of panic. She had assumed, for example, that the scandals around Prince Lucius (the man) and Lady Bellatrix, or the reappearance of Bellatrix, or the release of Bellatrix's book (perhaps a common theme?) were anomalies, whereas Draco's normal life, such as the time he spent with her, was his norm.

Not so. The _norm_, it seemed, was a manageable frequency of panic. To their staff, the monarchy was something that needed constant saving. Ironically, even their allies were threats, as Harry's approval rating—regularly higher than Abraxas' and often higher than Draco's as well—became increasingly worrisome in what Hermione judged to be a very archaic form of thinking. What did it matter if people who inexplicably loved polls claimed to approve more strongly of Harry? He was the son of two tragically beloved icons and more importantly, he would never be king, so there were few restrictions as to what he could do or say and even fewer opportunities for him to do or say anything vastly unpopular. Draco, meanwhile, had the untenable task of soothing those who resented Lucius' flight from royal succession while also being held up as a paragon of healing for the monarchy's ills. He walked an increasingly fine line between the idealism that won younger generations to his cause in hopes of progress and the conservatism upon which his institution was built, who loved him out of the expectation that he would give them everything they clung to from Abraxas. No matter how many eyes were on him, no one ever seemed to see the way his hands were tied.

Being his wife, Hermione assumed that if Draco's approval went down, hers declined by necessity. It was unclear to her how she fit into all this as an individual, though the optics suggested she didn't.

"I don't understand how 'allergic to work' is a phrase that keeps circulating," Hermione said to Padma and Astoria, who'd been spending an exorbitant amount of time in the office that month due to the forthcoming annual gala for Abraxas. "In what way am I _allergic_? It's not as if I've ever shown up sneezing."

"It's your past working against you," Padma said with a shrug, and Hermione suppressed a groan at the reminder that the work she'd done for Minerva and the Transfiguration Project had long since been rewritten as an exercise of empty stalling whilst she waited adoringly for Draco to make up his mind. "At this point," Padma added, "it would probably be better if you'd simply been a journalist yourself rather than writing under the guise of Penelope."

Hermione perked up at that, sitting upright. "You don't think I should—"

"Of course we don't," Astoria confirmed, kicking Padma's foot below the table and ostensibly overlooking the smirk Padma offered in response. "That door is _quite_ closed, given the shot Lockhart's already dealt to Penelope's reputation. And besides," she added, sparing another admonishing glance in Padma's direction before turning back to Hermione, "your job then was to be innocuous enough to be Draco's girlfriend, which you did, and well done you," she added, as if Hermione ought to be pleased she'd so skillfully rendered herself invisible. "Now that your job is to be Draco's _wife_, however, the rules of the game have changed."

"So much so it's hardly even the same game," Padma acknowledged grudgingly. "Though, for what it's worth," she added to Hermione, "if I'd been the one advising you back then, I might have suggested another route aside from camouflage."

Before Hermione could respond, Astoria took the reins again. "What would have been the point? Nobody expected her to last," she remarked, adding an innocent "What?" to Hermione's look of injury. "They _didn't_, and you know it. Of course nobody was worried about you establishing yourself as a woman who might one day be Queen," Astoria scoffed. "They were far more interested in proving that you were the woman who would one day _disappear_, so what reason would they have had to groom you for anything more significant?"

"Just don't get mired in the nonsense," Padma suggested preemptively, in response to what was about to be Hermione's insistence that something must be done. "A good third of what we'd like to accomplish in your name is a losing battle. Naturally they'll all accuse you of being workshy because nobody can tell them the truth: that His Majesty has good reason for not wanting you to open your mouth. Oh and by the way, the Palace requested a late lunch," she added, as if this were merely an afterthought. "I thought perhaps tomorrow?"

"With Draco and his grandfather?" Hermione echoed, caught off guard. Draco hadn't mentioned anything to her, though he had been meeting with his grandfather more frequently in recent weeks. He would be giving the opening remarks at the gala, and, as ever, had been cloistered with Snape preparing to do battle with the Palace over what he could and could not say.

"His Majesty has requested to speak with you alone," Padma clarified, not looking up from her calendar. "You should have plenty of time after your morning meetings with—"

"Why alone?" burst from Hermione's mouth. She wasn't especially proud of the way she'd suddenly broken out in a cold sweat, but stress was leaking uncontrollably from her pores at the mere possibility of being alone in a room with her husband's grandfather. "I can't think why he'd need to talk to me."

"I'm sure it's nothing," said Padma very falsely at the precise moment that Astoria said in an unfaceted voice, "It's Umbridge."

"What?" said Hermione, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. "But—"

"I'm at least enough of a monarchist to believe the King is not an idiot," said Astoria. "Umbridge is Prime Minister, which means you'll have to speak with her."

"Why?" Hermione demanded.

"Because she's Prime Minister," Astoria said again.

"But—"

"I hear Bagman loves her," Padma remarked with an impressively straight face. "Said she would be 'incredible' as PM, I believe? Perhaps even 'tremendous'?"

"Oh good, so the _one woman_ that ghoul chooses to admire is this one," said Hermione crossly. "How stupendously Bagman of him."

"He also went on to say that his endorsement would be extremely valuable for any of the candidates," Padma added, "which they have all specially requested from him, of course—"

"What a sloppy little bench," exclaimed Hermione, before being interrupted by Astoria's most decorous cough.

"The point is, you ought to just take the meeting and get it over with," Astoria said firmly. "Just… promise you'll be on your best behavior, have a scone, be back in your office by mid-afternoon. If anything, Draco would probably thank you," she added, which was certainly true. He never spoke a word against his grandfather, but there was a new crease around his mouth that seemed to appear whenever his presence was requested at Buckingham Palace. "Besides, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to have one family member who—"

Astoria cut herself off, emitting a sound halfway between a cough and a gulp.

"One moment," she said, rising gracefully to her feet and slipping out of Hermione's office.

Hermione, who'd been so mired in her thoughts of coming into punchable contact with Dolores Umbridge that she hadn't noticed whatever infinitesimal moment of crisis Astoria had just had, startled back to cognition and glanced at Padma.

"So," Hermione said. "Are we going to discuss this mysterious ailment Astoria's been having for the past few months, or…?"

"You know she's not going to bring it up in front of you," said Padma, who seemed to be drafting a strongly worded email on her iPad screen as she spoke. "I wouldn't say your initial reaction was particularly… what should I call it?" She glanced up, then shrugged. "Normal," she concluded, returning to her email while Hermione made a face.

"It was an off day," she admitted with a grumble. "But it doesn't mean she has to hide it from me. What kind of monster would I be to hold it against her that she got pregnant before I did? She doesn't even seem happy about it."

"Well, far be it from me to speculate on her personal business," remarked a still-distracted Padma, though Hermione felt that speculation about Astoria was extremely within range of Padma's purview, given how much time they spent together in the office. "But you might be right about needing to discuss it," Padma suggested. "I'm sure you'll both benefit from a bit of candor."

Per usual, Padma's take on the situation was faultless. "You know, sometimes I think I ought to be lying on one of those therapy sofas while I talk to you," Hermione mused.

"And how does that make you feel?" Padma asked without looking up.

"Very funny," Hermione sighed.

Padma looked up with a wink, rising to her feet. "In any case, I think what Astoria was going to say was that it's perfectly fair for you to disagree with Abraxas," she said. "Your approval rating is the only one unsullied by his attempts to make nice with Umbridge."

"Sorry… what?" asked Hermione, who, again, hadn't considered that she might count as a person separate from Draco. Granted, she knew she had some pull when it came to fashion—she was aware of the way her clothes sold out after she wore them, which was something she attributed more to Daphne and Astoria than to herself—but she had never thought to wonder what her approval rating might have been. She just assumed from the behavior of the media that it was somewhere between discouraging and abysmal.

"Look at it this way," Padma suggested, tucking her iPad under her arm. "You have two options: get good at being a Princess or prepare for being a Queen. Obviously there are limits," she provided as a caveat, though Hermione was barely listening, having had most of her thoughts drowned out by the sudden, draining reality that at some point Abraxas would no longer be there, and therefore she might not be expected to comply with his instructions. "But do you really want to make the same mistake of stifling yourself now only to suffer for it later?"

Hermione considered saying something along the lines of "but Abraxas is still very healthy and do I really want to break the monarchy before it passes to Draco's hands," but instead she sort of frowningly gaped and Padma shrugged, finding her silence conclusive enough.

"Just a thought," she said, and moved to step out, pausing in the doorway to add, "By the way, Snape's coming in for a moment."

"What?" asked Hermione.

"Sorry, I thought it'd be to catch you off guard. Ta," concluded Padma with a wicked look of _gotcha_, disappearing into the corridor just moments before Hermione heard a knock.

"Come in," she called with a grimace, hoping that Astoria would interrupt with a return to their prior conversation. Unfortunately, everything Hermione knew about Padma suggested that that probability had been dealt with, so it was Snape who entered her office like an omen, scarcely making a sound.

"Yes?" Hermione asked, glancing expectantly up at him. He offered her a nod rather than a bow, given that she had told her entire staff several times not to be excessively formal with her in private. At the moment, though, she wished she'd implemented a stricter policy if it meant she could somehow escape while his attention was cast at her feet.

"We should discuss how you plan to handle the Prime Minister," Snape said.

"I'm sure I could discuss it with Padma," Hermione said brightly. "Or Percy."

He gave her a look of impatience.

"I labor under no delusions of your fondness towards me," he informed her in his slippery drone of a voice. "That being said, I serve this office, and in so doing I serve you. I do feel it's best we communicate directly from time to time." He gave her a swift, pursed glance and asked, "Might I presume you'd prefer me to be frank?"

She leaned back in her chair, concealing the effects of her internal bracing. "Please."

He crossed the remainder of the office and took a seat at her desk, for which she was grateful he hadn't asked permission. If he was going to give her some sort of dressing-down, she wanted him to get it over with as quickly as possible.

"It's very easy to defend the monarchy on the basis of the current monarch," he said, which struck Hermione as an odd place to start. He sounded as if he'd begun somewhere in the middle of a conversation—which, given Padma's final note, he may well have done. "What His Majesty signifies for Britain's reputation, for our economy, for who we are as a people… even in moments of peril, there are arguments to be made on the Crown's behalf. However—"

He cleared his throat, expression becoming somehow even more grim.

"There have been too many fripperies," he said. "Too many luxuries. Too many palaces, too much mind-numbing devotion to protocol—"

Hermione blinked.

"—and while some of the cost of royalty is more defensible than lavish—security, for example," Snape provided, still in his unchanging monotone, "or private transportation—some changes will have to be made. And we must begin showing this country what the monarchy will look like when King Abraxas is no longer at the helm."

Hermione's first thought in response was that it sounded faintly like treason, and she nearly laughed aloud, thinking about what Theo or Blaise would say to Snape's idea of a bit of sleight of hand: _now you see King Abraxas, now you don't_.

"Draco's never mentioned this," she managed, and Snape shook his head.

"That's because the Prince of Wales cannot be seen to covet or even consider what will survive when the King has passed," said Snape with extraordinary disdain, as if Hermione should have known as much at birth, as he had. "His Highness is a loyal subject of his grandfather's and must behave as such in every way. To even be known to speculate in private about changes he might make would be… unseemly, at best."

"Oh, but I can?" Hermione asked skeptically. "As if I'm not already the grubby American lusting after the throne—"

"People will hate you," Snape said without hesitation. "We do as much as we can to combat this as much as we're able, but you were not born to hold this position and as such, you will waste your time striving for acceptance you'll never reach. That being said, I believe that you are woefully underused in your current capacity," he continued, and though he'd warned her that he intended to be frank, she certainly hadn't expected him to do it in a complimentary way. "Strategically, there is more to gain from your opposition to the Prime Minister than there is from your compliance."

The conversation had taken a sharp turn, in Hermione's view. "Padma seemed to think I shouldn't make a fuss," she commented, though she was less certain now that she'd fully grasped Padma's intent.

Bemused as she was, Snape's reply caught her by further surprise, being entirely tangential. "Why do people like the Duke of Grimmauld?"

"I…" What a question. Why did anyone like anyone, least of all Harry, who was improbably difficult to dislike? "His personality, I suppose," Hermione managed, wondering for a moment if Harry's opposition to Snape was somehow mutual and therefore personal on both sides.

"His 'personality' is little more than a history of tawdry affairs and well-timed suggestions of affability in public," said Snape dismissively. "What the public knows about him is limited to tabloid covers and media soundbytes."

Last she checked she hadn't signed up for a pop quiz on public relations, though she made a note to discuss this with Percy the next time it came up. "Well, he's… I don't know, he's different, I guess—"

"Yes," Snape said. "Exactly."

Hermione contemplated this for several seconds before determining that she had nothing productive to derive from it. If Snape was suggesting that she should somehow vie for popularity with _Harry_, of all people, that seemed like quite a risky move. By all accounts, Abraxas considered Harry something of a liability, however fond he was of him. There was always some jostling between Draco and his grandfather as to whether there should be more control exerted over Harry's access to the public—though, Hermione supposed, there was a distinct possibility that that was precisely the point Snape had come here to make.

Did people love Harry _because_ he wasn't under the thumb of Abraxas? It seemed quite a leap, but he also wasn't the first royal to be beloved for breaking the rules.

"What exactly are you suggesting?" she asked skeptically, wondering just how rebellious Snape expected her to get. It was one thing to oppose the rigor of Abraxas' expectations, but quite another to humiliate any member of the family that was now very much her own. "Because if you think I'm going to throw my champagne in Umbridge's face—"

"No, you must be entirely on your best behavior," Snape said.

She stared at him, waiting. Once again, she was struck by how fantastically condescending he was, although as much as it irked her, she wasn't quite annoyed enough to not want to hear what came next.

"However," Snape obliged after several seconds. "If someone happened to speculate about your distaste for the Prime Minister's politics—"

"Everyone already knows I can't stand Umbridge's politics," Hermione said, frowning. She'd had every intention to listen without interruption, but his opening point was absurd. "She's essentially just Bagman with an affinity for pink tweed." Being a woman, after all, did not preclude a person from prejudice, nor did it necessarily undermine the effects of great privilege.

"Nobody knows how you feel about the President of the United States, nor do they know your thoughts on the Prime Minister," Snape informed her, sounding bored.

"But surely anyone who's paying attention—"

"And who is doing that, Your Highness?"

That condescension again. "Of course I don't approve of either one of them! I've spoken several times about the need to empower vulnerable members of society—"

"Yes, I see, and remind me again of the numbers?"

She blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"The numbers," Snape repeated, his voice unchanged. "How many people have viewed your speeches as opposed to, say, your engagement video," he said in something just shy of mocking lilt, "or the documentaries about your wedding, or your wardrobe—"

"Well of course the numbers are lower than that, but I still think it's—"

She stopped, realizing that Snape had gripped the armrests of his chair and was now preparing to rise to his feet. The motion seemed to suggest the conversation was over, but as far as she could tell, nothing substantial had been said.

"Is that," Hermione began, and faltered, unsure how to demand that he come out and make his point. "Was that all that you meant to suggest? That I should discuss my politics?"

"I'm quite sure I suggested no such thing," Snape said, adding, "Do be careful what you say around the Grimmaulds."

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, momentarily dizzied.

"Be careful," he repeated. "It appears their household has a leak."

Was he suggesting…? Surely not. "Padma mentioned that was a possibility," Hermione said uncertainly, "but she seemed to think—"

"Our offices must, by necessity, remain above scrutiny," Snape cut in firmly, still telegraphing some obscure code that Hermione was only half managing to follow. "And of course, ordinarily I would expect the same of Grimmauld Place, but as circumstances are…"

It dawned on Hermione that someone else had clearly arrived at the same suspicion she had when it came to who in the Grimmauld household might be responsible for something untoward. After all, it was Snape who knew what happened the night of Pettigrew's death, wasn't it? So if anyone had reason not to trust the new and unlikely addition to Harry and Pansy's household…

"Who is it?" she asked, wondering if Snape would voice his suspicions aloud, though it didn't surprise her when his expression remained unchanged.

"I'm sure I have no idea," Snape replied firmly, closing her office door in his wake.

* * *

Hermione had always had two reliable accomplices since the early days of dating Draco, and given the possibility of miscreant behavior, there was only one place to turn. Naturally, this was not the time for Harry (emotionally invested) or Pansy (belligerently devoted to the rules), and as strange as it was to say, Blaise was occasionally too reasonable to be consulted on a matter with such incredible lack of proof. Also, Hermione hadn't heard much from him lately; she assumed he was still embroiled in Tracey-related uncertainty.

"It wouldn't really be a stretch, would it?" Hermione posed to the Disaster Twins, who were predictably rapt at the idea of a shenanigan. Hermione had initially met Daphne at her atelier, but then Daphne, sick of the same four walls she'd been occupying since, quote, the beginning of time, had suggested they track Theo down to his office at the Transfiguration Project, which Hermione was astonished to find was now a vibrant, multi-floor operation. "I mean, however you happen to look at the Lupin situation, the timing is conspicuous," Hermione remarked, which was met with reasonably conspiratorial nods.

"We can't rule out the possibility that he needs money after all," Daphne agreed, having been informed by then of Hermione's little jaunt with Pansy to the cafe where they'd "met" Remus Lupin. "It's what Bellatrix Lestrange did, isn't it? Infiltrating the family and then turning around to sell details to the tabloids? There's got to be more money in that than a single check," she said, glancing at Theo for confirmation.

"Bellatrix certainly didn't invent that particular move," Theo agreed rather sagely for a man whose hand currently rested atop the head of a tartan-clad Prince Lucius (the dog). "Though it would take quite a rogue to sneak his roguery past Pansy."

"You mean the same Pansy who married Harry for his roguery?" Daphne scoffed. "Please. If anyone's extremely susceptible, it's obviously her."

"It would still be a very sneaky move," Hermione noted with a frown. "Refusing her help only to turn around and betray her later? Even if you assume good intentions at the start, it's all very sinister."

"Dodgy at best," Daphne agreed.

"Well, say what you will about Lupin, but if anyone knows how to play a long game, it's him," Theo remarked.

"Meaning?" prompted Daphne.

"Meaning nothing," Theo said. "But he survived a Black household, mind you, and not all of Bellatrix's book was a lie."

"I always forget Harry's godfather is related to Narcissa and Bellatrix," Hermione said, though of course that was the familial bridge between Draco and Harry to begin with. At this point, they acted so much like siblings that she frequently misplaced the knowledge that they weren't. "Which seems strange," Hermione murmured, "since everything Harry says about his godfather suggests that Sirius was about as capable of guile as Harry is."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Theo, in the toneless voice of feigned ignorance that Daphne and Hermione both recognized meant he was definitely-probably lying.

"You know something," Daphne said, levying the accusation in a very Theo way, which was about a hair shy of a 'j'accuse.' "Nott, if you don't tell me this instant, I swear to god I'll cut holes in all your jumpers—"

"Keep your hands off my knits, woman," said Theo, which seemed like it could be the beginning of some very strange foreplay if Hermione had not cleverly thought to interrupt.

"Okay, hang on," Hermione said, snapping her fingers between Theo and Daphne to regain their simultaneous attention. "Both you and Draco have been extremely fishy about this whole Lupin thing. And about Sirius, for that matter."

"Fishy?" echoed Theo.

"Fishy," Hermione confirmed. "Dodgy, if you prefer."

"Well, look," Theo said. "Sirius was… not like Bellatrix or Narcissa. But he comes from similar stock, and he's not exactly—" He hesitated, noticing that both Daphne and Hermione were staring at him very intently. "Well, hang on," he interrupted himself, directing his attention to Hermione. "Has anyone stopped to consider that perhaps Snape is throwing you to the wolves, Cali? It's not as if he and Lupin are known to be friends, and his feud with the Potters has clearly outlived Harry's father."

"What, you think he's tricking me into something?" Hermione asked. "Like what?"

"Well, he's trying to influence you separately from Draco," Daphne realized with a frown. "Which isn't exactly forthright."

"And Snape's a dodgy character for sure," Theo said. "I have no personal opposition to him, of course, because he dodges in a way that benefits our sweet Prince," he said in response to Hermione's violent look of EXCUSE ME? YOU HAVE LITERALLY NEVER BEEN ANTI-SNAPE IN THE PAST DESPITE MY BEST EFFORTS, "but who's to say he's on _your_ side, hm? He was once one of Prince Lucifer's best henchmen," Theo added, evidently delivering what he considered to be a nail in the coffin while Prince Lucius (the dog) whined softly beneath his hand. "Whose idea was it to bury Narcissa? Someone dodgy, I assure you."

"Oh," Hermione said, having forgotten that the idea may not have come from Lucius or Abraxas themselves. She was still adjusting to the way courtiers ruled the lives of the royals, though she couldn't imagine Snape's poison being so effective he could influence a man against his wife.

Though, wasn't it worse to think that Lucius (the man) had done it on his own?

Hermione grimaced, dismissing both versions and reminding herself that all involved parties seemed to have genuinely believed they were doing the right thing, even if one of them was spectacularly wrong. "Well, look, it's not as if I'm going to do something stupid," she said. "And if Lupin _isn't_ leaking details to the press, then nothing will come of it. Don't you all do this?" she asked, suddenly reminded of the white lies that Draco habitually told to new acquaintances to see what came out in public as a result of his confidence. "I could simply let slip that I don't care for Umbridge's politics, and then—"

"We test people with trivial falsehoods, not divisive truths," Theo corrected her, warning, "If this sort of thing _is_ released, they'll spin it against you. Whoever's been carrying on the Skeeter brand of unapologetic naysaying will call you unpatriotic at best, not to mention difficult or manipulative the way they already mistake your activism for arrogance. _And_," Theo added as an afterthought, "if Lupin _does_ turn out to be some sort of leak, you'll have to explain it to Harry, which is a task that I for one would not care to be burdened with."

"We could leak it ourselves," Daphne suggested, glancing at Theo. "Maybe that would be easier?"

Theo shook his head. "We're too high-profile now. And anyway, I'm still not convinced it's not a bit of a trap. Snape's never been a friend to you before," he warned Hermione, which again caused her a moment's panic over the reminder that in all likelihood, someone had been the person to advise Prince Lucius (the man) that her relationship with Draco should not be permitted to go public. Why would a man who'd wanted to keep her out of Draco's life now act in her best interest? Severus Snape had not only worked for the Palace, he was a diehard member of The Firm to the extreme—so much so that two people had written books speculating about his insidious deeds on the royal family's behalf.

Hermione thought again about Theo's comments on who could play the long game and frowned. What if Snape saw her not as a vital piece for the monarchy's growth, but as a scapegoat who could be extricated from her husband's reputation at some future time? If she became too unpopular, there were obviously ways to sever her connection to Draco, and it wasn't completely out of the question that she was being positioned to fail so that Draco's strict adherence to his grandfather's rules would look better by comparison. Perhaps Snape took it as an insult that Hermione's approval ratings could remain unchanged while Draco's repeatedly suffered.

"Oi, Nott," said Oliver Wood, poking his head in and tossing a new pile of paperwork in the direction of the overflowing inbox on Theo's desk (he was apparently oblivious to the fact that Hermione was currently blocking its intended trajectory)."These just in for your perusal. Daphne, lovely as always," Oliver offered with a nod in Daphne's direction as they all glanced down at the papers that were now scattered across the floor. "Ah, and Granger, walk with me. Listen, about the bind-"

Oliver was halfway out the door before he suddenly broke off, popping his head back in.

"Sorry," he said with something passably considered a bow. "Old habits. Carry on."

Then he disappeared, leaving Hermione to turn back to Theo with a frown.

"So I'm just supposed to do nothing," she said glumly, returning to the point. "You don't even think I should discuss Bagman? But some states have gubernatorial elections coming up—"

"That means nothing to me," Theo said, conveniently plucking a Union Jack pen from his desk and waving it around like a white flag. "But I suggest you stay the course."

"Well, if I wanted that advice, I'd have gone to Pansy," Hermione grumbled, and Daphne grimaced in agreement.

"I hate to say it, but I suppose Nott's got a point—at least for now," she admitted. "This is the rest of your life, Hermione, and in all likelihood you'll outlast both Bagman and Umbridge. Maybe it's best if you… try to go high?" she suggested, looking as if she herself didn't care for the words coming out of her mouth. "Better that than inviting more scrutiny than you already have."

Hermione rubbed her temple in disappointment, remembering how filthily the British tabloids tended to regard any evidence of intent when it came to her. Theo was right—to them, she was arrogant, not progressive. Even her best and sincerest intentions were often refracted in a negative light, as if she'd plotted every accidental "flouting of tradition" in advance so as to better express her disdain for everyone else.

"Just think about it," Daphne suggested, leaning onto the arm of Theo's chair. He, too, gave her a look of general resignation, as if he preferred to give her a better option if only one existed.

"Fine," Hermione grumbled, not quite sold. "I'll think about it. Unless Blaise has a better idea," she said, which was a petty bit of taunting to which she had expected a very different reaction than she got.

"Unlikely he's left Neville's side," Theo said, and then catching Hermione's look of confusion, he added, "You haven't heard? His gran passed. Even Minnie's been a wreck," he said, gesturing to Minerva's empty office. "The whole thing was terribly unexpected."

"Oh, no." Hermione's chest was crushed. "Were Neville and his gran back on speaking terms?"

"No," Daphne said, looping an arm protectively around Theo's shoulders. "Last we heard from Pansy, Blaise rushed to Neville's side and hasn't left since."

Well, that was something, Hermione thought with an inward sigh. Loss had a way of making some things exceptionally clearer, even if that clarity happened to be its own kind of loss.

* * *

Hermione saw her in-laws relatively often, considering the nature of being employed by them. Still, she was rarely alone in a room with any of them individually, and certainly not with Abraxas, which meant it was a bit (read: very) anxiety-inducing. Being led to one of the State rooms in Buckingham Palace was even more unnerving, as that sort of treatment was usually reserved for political visits or, worse, disciplinary ones.

She slid into the room and curtsied, waiting. Astoria had chosen an absurdly un-Hermione skirt suit for the occasion—"Queen Adelaide famously favored robin egg blue," Astoria had said, though the shade in question did _not_ do much to favor Hermione's complexion—and she now felt doubly strange, nearly blending into the tapestry and the walls.

"Ah, Hermione," said Abraxas warmly, looking up from something he'd been writing. "Sit, sit. I'm just finishing a bit of correspondence and then we'll have lunch," he said, though Hermione felt it rather unlikely that the choreography of her visit was so… delightfully spontaneous. Whatever he intended to say, it was obviously meant to take place in this room; otherwise she'd have been led to one of the dining rooms and made to wait there, which had happened on one or two occasions with Draco. Abraxas was not a man who misused his time, nor one who sacrificed his privacy.

She took a seat in one of the powder blue chairs, crossing her ankles. Daphne and Theo had given her a refresher for old times' sake before she left, but she hadn't needed it. At this point in her life, she couldn't imagine crossing her legs without instantly overcorrecting out of habit.

"How are you, my dear?" asked Abraxas, still writing, though he glanced up to offer her a reassuring smile. "I'm afraid we haven't spoken in quite some time."

Privately, Hermione felt sure that Abraxas kept an intentional distance between them, though she didn't consider it personal. From her perspective, Abraxas maintained his distance from everyone except for Draco, who had spent the previous evening at the Palace and then returned home exhausted, hardly saying a word before falling asleep fully clothed.

"I'm doing well," Hermione said. "I spent some time yesterday with The Transfiguration Project to discuss their public outreach goals for the new year."

"That's the public arts program, yes?" asked Abraxas, which she had to admit was quite impressive. With so many demands on his time and attention, she didn't imagine he kept track of each cause individually.

"Yes, it is. Theo's chairman of the board."

"Ah yes, of course." He finished with a swirl of his signature A and looked up with a smile. "And you're still finding it all quite meaningful, I hope?"

He seemed to mean more than just the Transfiguration Project. "Yes, very much so. Though, I believe that Padma—that is, Ms Patil, my Chief of Staff—has been having some trouble getting some of my intended projects approved," Hermione ventured, testing the waters.

"Has she?" echoed Abraxas, seemingly bemused. "Well, I'm sure I can bring it up with my offices to see what the delay could be."

Oh, only about a century's worth of progress, Hermione thought, but smiled as if she, too, believed it to be some far simpler matter of backlogged paperwork. "I didn't mean to suggest you should—"

"Of course, of course." He waved a hand, scattering her concerns to a breeze of familial reassurance. _Never complain, never explain_, popped once again into Hermione's thoughts unbidden, as she considered for the first time that Abraxas would probably not have been receptive to a sadness ritual, had anyone ever suggested it to him.

"And how are you?" she asked gently. "Draco tells me your offices have been very hectic leading up to the gala."

"Ah, I'm afraid I'm rather accustomed to the untidiness of State functions," Abraxas replied. "The perpetuity of details and accessories can be quite a funny constant in times of such… uncertainty."

She felt the underlying shift in conversation that meant Abraxas was approaching his target. Everything she'd learned about decoding the royal family meant that he was now alluding to the recent stalemate in Parliament, which was about what she'd expected. "Oh?"

He slid a smile at her, this one a bit more authentic. "I don't forget the last time we spoke about this," he said. _Political tides change_, he had said. _We mustn't_.

"Ah," she said. "I suppose I haven't, either."

Abraxas set his correspondence aside and turned to her, considering his words for a moment before leaning forward in a grandfatherly way.

"I believe you knew Lady Augusta Longbottom?" he asked, and Hermione blinked, both from the surprising shift in topic and the sudden recollection that Pansy had once told her of some connection between Augusta and Abraxas. "She was once a very dear friend of mine," Abraxas explained, confirming her suspicions.

"I was so sorry to hear of her passing," Hermione said, adding, "She was always very kind to me," which was true, even if Augusta had also threatened to destroy Pansy's life and had cut off her only grandson as a result of his sexual preferences, thereby leaving Hermione with a somewhat sour taste.

To her surprise, Abraxas laughed. "At my age I find myself increasingly amused by how charitable people are in death. Augusta was vibrant, funny, and stubborn as a mule." He smiled faintly into nothing. "She was an accomplished, lovely nuisance and a dreadful little snitch, and I will miss her dearly."

His smile faded. Hermione, injured by his loss, took part in his silent period of mourning.

"I understand you and Draco are quite close with her grandson?" Abraxas asked after a moment, to which Hermione hedged slightly, adjusting in her seat.

"I believe she and Neville are—were," she corrected herself, "…estranged?"

Abraxas shook his head. "Perhaps at one time," he admitted, "though not, it appears, as a final matter. You'll recall I said she was stubborn, but not entirely heartless."

"So Neville is still her heir?" Hermione said, surprised when Abraxas nodded in confirmation. She was certainly pleased to hear it, though she couldn't help thinking how lonely it must have been for Neville to learn that he had been forgiven only on the occasion of his grandmother's passing, when there was no chance of reconciliation left.

"Sadly I cannot help but think that Augusta and I may have found ourselves at quite a similar crossroads. I am," Abraxas began, and paused, glancing at Hermione. "Not pleased with the necessity of my position."

She wondered what had made him draw the comparison. "Which necessity is that?"

"A familiar choice between progress and history," he said.

Ah. So this was definitely about Umbridge, at least in part.

"I'm sure this must be very difficult for you," Abraxas said. "I know this because you are young and compassionate, and if such a moment is difficult for me, then there can be no mistaking the crisis you must face in what you must believe to be silence."

Well, that was certainly… accurate, Hermione thought, waiting for him to continue.

"We must let our work speak for itself," Abraxas began, and then stopped. "We must let our lives," he corrected himself, "speak for themselves."

Possibly it was their proximity, or maybe it was the lighting, but for a moment Hermione became aware of how old he was, and how immeasurably exhausted. There was a moment when she watched his mask crumble, and in that small window of uncertainty, he spoke volumes without saying a word. Wearing his dead wife's favorite color, Hermione thought she watched Abraxas lose Adelaide and Augusta all over again, so wearied by the thought of his legacy, or what would be left of him when Hermione's own voice inevitably outlasted his.

Of course he must be considering things in terms of what a life could say, because his was inevitably nearing its end. Hers said nothing yet, Hermione realized. She hadn't existed long enough to put a period on anything, whereas Abraxas was staring down an epithet of significance. She watched a lifetime's worth of conflict play out in one man's moment of vulnerability, and she realized the value of this, something she had so long underwritten.

Dignity.

She reached out tentatively, placing a hand over his as if he were the grandfather who helped raise the man she loved and not the sovereign of an empire.

_God save the King_, she thought quietly, meaning every word for the first time that she could remember, and he looked up at her as if he had heard her, or as if she, too, had peeled back a corner of herself and allowed him to see something true.

"Well," Abraxas said, clearing his throat of excess sentiment and giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "I do hope you're hungry, as I'm afraid I've requested many sweets."

* * *

Hermione didn't discuss her lunch with Abraxas aside from giving the general indication that it had been enjoyable and casual. Instead of focusing on that—nor on her cycle, for which she muted her personal calendar and told Draco she wanted to take the month off for purposes of centering her energy on the forthcoming gala—she threw herself into the details she might have otherwise dismissed as distractions. She paid particularly close attention to the jewels she wore and where the fabric for her gown had been sourced, not letting a single feature go unacknowledged. She memorized the names and backgrounds of every guest, preparing to make conversation at a moment's notice. She worked with Draco on his speech and drilled Percy on every moment of the evening, ensuring no stray frowns or looks of confusion would possibly be captured against her will.

If Britain wanted the Princess of Wales who would become Queen of England, then she would give them a taste of it tonight, she decided. She would outlast Dolores Umbridge and her xenophobia. She would outlast Bagman and his misogyny. She would outlast the Dursleys, who appeared in the press almost daily, and as for the Twitter trolls and the Instagram bots and the whatsits and the whosits who had populated her distraction before now, there was no need to give them power over her. If the job was to simply be eternal, then Hermione Granger would show them how.

"You do look convincing," said Pansy, to which Hermione did not have to ask _convincing as what_, because she had already amply prepared for the answer.

"Who's unsuited to the job now?" she replied, and Daphne gave Pansy a haughty nudge.

"The commoner's guide to unseating the posh," Daphne teased.

"Hush," said Pansy in reply, which was to be expected.

"Is Blaise here?" asked Hermione, glancing around. "I haven't heard from him in a few days."

"He's been elsewhere," Pansy said unhelpfully. "Still pondering the nature of existence."

"Do you mean Neville or Tracey?" said Hermione, as Daphne frowned.

"Where are _any_ of the men, now that you mention it?" she remarked, as if she'd only recently noticed her husband had disappeared into thin air. "Nott keeps insisting he's not part of the shrubbery but in fairness to me, it's unclear."

"He's with Draco somewhere," Hermione said, which did not entirely register as odd until Pansy's brow gave the slightest sign of distress. "Why, where's Harry?"

"They haven't had to do a sneakaway in years, have they?" Daphne commented. "I don't suppose anything exciting's happening, do you?"

"Well, it's unlikely Draco's planned a prank," said Hermione, "though I do always suspect he'd be good at it."

"I'm sure it's nothing," Pansy said, and then her eyes narrowed. "Incoming."

"What does that m-"

"Your Royal Highness," came a distinctly unwelcome voice over Hermione's shoulder, prompting her to turn just as Rita Skeeter dropped into a theatrical curtsy. "A pleasure, as ever."

Daphne and Pansy had already disappeared, the traitors. "Hello, Rita," Hermione sighed. "I don't suppose you'd like to offer me fair warning as to how I'll be slandered today?"

"Oh, didn't you hear?" Rita said with a tinkling laugh. "I no longer concern myself with such things. In fact, my books have been so very lucrative I've decided to devote myself to writing them full-time."

"So… no more tabloids?" Hermione asked doubtfully.

"A low form of art, don't you think?" Rita replied from her cloud of floral condescension. "I was considering a bit of fiction, actually. Perhaps the story of a young American who meets a British prince only to find herself committing terrible crimes in order to preserve her reputation?" she remarked, to which Hermione had to fight a sullen glower.

"You know there's no way your publisher wouldn't encounter some sort of mysterious obstacle if you even tried it," Hermione scoffed, to which Rita's expression darkened. "The Palace would never allow it."

"Yes, actually, I'm very aware," Rita said tightly. "And I see you've learned nothing, have you?"

"What am I supposed to have learned, Rita? That you'll stoop to any form of depravity to cause me misery?" Hermione retorted. "I already knew that."

"You still think this is about you?" Rita asked, and to Hermione's alarm, her laughter that time was genuine. "No, you poor thing, not at all. Your ego gets the better of you yet again if you think any of this is personal."

"Why don't you just come out with a how-to book called 'Abolish the Monarchy' and have it done with?" Hermione sighed, to which Rita sniffed her disagreement.

"I am not anti-monarchy, I'm pro-modernism," she said. "And it astounds me that someone with your sense of egalitarianism would have to be told the difference. Though, given your recent embrace of glamor, perhaps that is my mistake," she said, giving Hermione's gown a disinterested once-over. "Still, if I may, the devotion to all things royal will likely die with this sovereign. Particularly once certain details come to light."

"I'm not falling for that," Hermione warned, observing that Rita clearly hoped to get a rise out of her with the implication that facts remained unknown.

"Mm, of course not, Your Highness, you're much too clever by half. Do enjoy your evening—though, if you happen to find a moment between tender gazes, perhaps you might ask your husband what reason he might have found not to oppose this Prime Minister's rise to power," Rita said in her most spirited tone of mockery, backstepping into the crowd with a nod and disappearing from Hermione's periphery.

Almost immediately there was a throat-clearing sound to Hermione's left; a tiny "hem-hem" that caused her to jump in alarm.

"Your Royal Highness," said the woman who was Britain's newest Prime Minister. "I'd so hoped we'd have the opportunity to meet this evening."

Hermione's first thought upon seeing Dolores Umbridge in the flesh was that she was very short, almost minuscule, though she stood with the directness of a Russian ballerina. Unlike Hermione, who wore the towering Jimmy Choos that even the _DRAGONFLOWER _blog (still desperately enamored with Fleur) openly coveted, Umbridge wore what looked like orthopedic kitten heels beneath a garment of shockingly raspberry satin. The gown, which was constructed a bit more like a separate jacket and skirt, was accented with a pussy bow blouse, providing an ostentatious clash between a power-suit and a conservative demurral of femininity.

"Prime Minister," Hermione managed, to which Umbridge preened as if she'd complimented her hair or remarked favorably on her attire. (Fuchsia! Hermione thought, the color finally leaping to mind). "A pleasure."

"Oh, quite so. I'm sure we're going to become very good friends," Umbridge chirped, though Hermione was met with the oddest sensation that the woman's eyes were distinctly unsmiling. "You can't imagine my delight at being welcomed so warmly to the Palace—ah, and Your Royal Highness," she said, as Hermione registered Draco's presence at her side with a mix of relief and guilt—as if she ought to shout "SHE CAME UP TO ME, I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT" and bolt.

"What an invigorating call to action this evening! I must agree with your remarks that in such uncertain times, we are called to be a beacon of unity and patriotism throughout our great kingdom," Umbridge said, gravely misinterpreting what had been a subtle rebuke of factious politics.

"Yes, thank you," said Draco, with such a surprising amount of coldness that Hermione nearly did a double take at the sound of his voice. "I'm afraid my wife and I will need to make our excuses, as my grandfather has need of us elsewhere," he added, guiding Hermione out, which was uncommon for him. Normally he was the one who charmed their guests while Hermione tried very hard not to yawn or check for something in her teeth.

"Of course, of course! We'll all speak again quite soon, I expect," Umbridge replied with a cloying giggle. "I'm sure we're all in agreement as to the importance of bringing about a better, safer Britain, aren't we?"

Like the rip of a turntable warp, Hermione gave an unintended pause. "Are we?" she asked Umbridge, forcing a smile. Innocent enough, she thought.

"I certainly hope so! The crown will of course have my staunch support as Prime Minister," said Umbridge, unblinking. "I assure you that I will allow nothing to stand against the preservation of order."

There was something about her tone, nearly conspiratorial, that caught Hermione's ear and stayed there, niggling in her thoughts.

"Order," Hermione echoed again. "By virtue of closing borders, you mean?"

Umbridge simpered at her for a moment, blinking twice like a bewildered cat. "I'm sure you don't mean to imply that our plan to regain sovereignty is somehow _divisive_, Your Highness. Surely you're aware that we cannot simply leave our doors open when so much of the country's safety is at stake?"

"It seems that perhaps the rest of Britain doesn't agree," Hermione said, aiming for excessive cheer. Maybe it had something to do with Umbridge's passive-aggressive tone, but she was finding herself at a higher pitch than usual. "I believe you were unable to make your most recent deadline, weren't you? And the term 'deadlocked' does seem to come up a lot, now that I think of it—"

"Hermione," came a murmur from Draco, at which point Hermione remembered she was probably being photographed. Umbridge, who seemed to have no gradations between her expressions of pinched delight, merely held a smile.

"I'm quite sure we'll find some common ground," said Umbridge. "We're all working very hard to ensure there will be a call for votes quite soon, and then all this dreadful unpleasantness will be tidied right up."

"I believe there was some sort of issue about the numbers, wasn't there?" mused Hermione, which was an understatement. The only good thing about politics currently was how hard the opposition had fought to keep Umbridge from closing a deal.

"Oh yes, well I imagine this must be very complicated for you, given that you're so unfamiliar with our politics," Umbridge said with rapturous patience. "But I assure you, Your Highness, that if we'll have it all sorted by the new year."

"Wasn't the previous date October?" Hermione said with potent confusion, as if she and Padma had not very recently celebrated the Labour party's efforts to force Umbridge into the latest Brexit extension. "How challenging this all must be for you," she lamented, and Draco coughed, to which Umbridge made a throat-clearing sound of reassurance.

"Don't let it worry you," Umbridge cooed. "I'm sure you're _quite_ busy at Kensington Palace! Thrilled to hear you've recently finished your renovations," she added, reducing Hermione once again to the obvious: her position in the leisured class. "Just in time to add a member to your household, I hope? We're all so looking forward to the growth of our most beloved family."

The two women exchanged a glance so false that it must have flooded Draco with unease, because he placed a hand on Hermione's lower back, gently prying her away.

"Well," Hermione said quickly, with a smile, "must go, our apologies. Though as you said, Prime Minister, I'm sure we'll speak at length when next we meet."

"I'm quite sure we will," Umbridge agreed, gazing flutter-eyed back at Hermione until she excused herself with a curtsy, turning her attention to some other MP as Hermione and Draco escaped to the opposite end of the room.

"What was that?" Hermione asked Draco in an undertone, and he passed her a grimace concealed by a glass of champagne.

"Better that nobody sees you talking to her," he said in a low voice, slipping his phone from his pocket and unlocking the screen. "I was just having a chat with Harry about this," he said, and Hermione frowned down at the headline: _FOR KING OR COUNTRY?_

She slid the phone from his hand and scrolled through the article. "Are they trying to suggest Abraxas somehow ensured Umbridge's rise to Prime Minister?" she asked, suffering the usual moment of repulsion at the knowledge that she'd heard it first from Rita Skeeter. Not that she believed it for a second—assuming this was the suspicion Rita had meant to plant, it was a predictably lurid one, and therefore almost certainly untrue. And hadn't Abraxas already made it clear there was no love lost between him and Umbridge?

"I believe the implication is that Shacklebolt," Draco said with a nod in the direction of the Labour party leader, "would mean a threat to the monarchy. Republican ideals, that sort of thing," he clarified, to which Hermione frowned. True, she found it unlikely that Shacklebolt saw any use for the monarchy given his personal view of politics, but as the members of her office often repeated, there was no compelling vision for a United Kingdom without a king; dismantling the monarchy was far easier theorized than done. "This particular article suggests that my grandfather appeared to support Umbridge in order to prevent Shacklebolt from gaining power."

"But that's ridiculous," said Hermione, wondering if it would be worth a wander in Shacklebolt's direction just to offset any time spent with Umbridge. Would she be cast as the incurable liberal again? Perhaps she ought to be—but then again she sighed, recalling Abraxas' advice. Let her life speak for itself, she thought, and ignore the tabloids. "Of course Abraxas doesn't support Brexit! We both know that. And how could your grandfather possibly rig an election, even if he wanted to?"

She expected Draco to agree that this was nonsense, anticipating that he would reassure her it was nothing before steering her to a fresh glass of champagne. "It's not as if he's entirely without influence," was what Draco said instead, which Hermione absorbed like she'd swallowed a ball of Draco's own stress. His posture was especially tense, and everything she knew about his body language suggested he was more concerned than he let on. "Figurehead or not," he murmured to her, "the monarchy isn't all that separate from the nobility. We're related to nearly half of Britain's prominent families, and everyone knows that Nott is essentially a stand-in for Grandfather when he wants something handled covertly."

"But Abraxas would never do that," Hermione said again, handing his phone back to him.

Draco fidgeted uncharacteristically as he slid the phone back into his pocket. "I may have mentioned to Harry a week or so ago that it was… possible," he confessed slowly. "My grandfather does seem to be implying lately that he's done something drastic in order to save us, though I've yet to unpuzzle what he means."

"You didn't mention that to me," Hermione commented, and Draco shook his head.

"It seemed like a mad idea at the time," he assured her, seeming to regret that now. "Even Harry thought so, so I didn't bring it up again."

It felt like the beginnings of something familiar, a song and dance they'd gone through several times before. "Harry would never leak something like this, if that's what you're worried about," Hermione said, glancing around the room for him. Harry was currently standing with Pansy, both of them using their Polite Laughter in response to some visiting emissary. "He knows how that would affect you." Which wasn't to say _someone _at Grimmauld Place hadn't leaked it, but she knew for certain it wasn't Harry.

"I know," Draco agreed, which was a relief. She'd thought for a moment that it was another burgeoning feud, but it seemed this time around that he must have been confiding in Harry, not suspecting him. "But it does make it much worse if someone else is having similar speculations, so—ah, there you are," Draco said, turning just as Theo approached with Daphne. "Get anything good?"

"Good? Not at all," Theo said. "Informative?" He glanced over his shoulder to where Hermione was startled to find Nott Sr standing across the room, scouring the room with his usual distaste for human existence. "Perhaps."

If Theo had spoken with his father, this was no mild curiosity on Draco's part. He must have recruited him into doing it, seeing as nothing even remotely uncontrived could ever persuade Theo to speak with his dad for any conceivable reason.

"Shall we have a martini?" asked Draco without looking up from his glass of champagne. (Briefly, Hermione marveled that nobody ever suggested their Prince had an obsession with martinis. Surely one or two royal staff must have noticed it by now, though it made sense that fondness for drink was an acceptable secret versus the much more troubling idea that he might need a moment's breath of privacy.)

"No need," Theo said. "He didn't say a word."

"Is that good?" asked Hermione, glancing at Daphne, who gave her a slightly exhausted shrug in return, as if she, too, were being dragged along a tide of secret bromance codes.

"No, he literally did not say one word," Theo said, to which Draco grimaced.

"Never complain, never explain," he murmured, either to himself or to Hermione, and as a result, she suffered a moment's blast of chill. Truly, if there was ever anything to explain, it would be the obvious: that the King of England had _of course_ not thrown his support to an insufferable xenophobe in order to protect his wealth and status.

Which meant that silence in this case was particularly damning, and worse, Draco's expression of disappointment when he looked at his grandfather was one of mortal injury, leaving little room for interpretation when it came to what Abraxas might have done.

Across the room, Prime Minister Umbridge caught Hermione's eye, simpering at her from afar.

"So what happens if Umbridge can't get that election she wants?" Hermione said, turning to Draco, who shrugged.

"Dudley Dursley will be immensely displeased," he muttered into his champagne.

"And?" Hermione pressed him.

"Well, she doesn't have the votes," Draco said. "And if she continues to not have the votes, it's too contentious to move forward. At some point, something's got to give."

A divided house cannot stand, Hermione thought in agreement, glancing at Abraxas for proof.

Suddenly she felt enraged at the idea that a moment of sentiment had caused her to misinterpret their conversation so fantastically. She thought Abraxas had been awakening to the idea that Augusta's life was wasted in pursuit of some fleeting preservation of her reputation, but instead he must have decided that the sacrifices he'd made to keep his hands clean would simply have to pay off. If Abraxas had chosen to throw his influence to Umbridge despite his disagreement with her politics, he must have decided that the monarchy would have to survive beyond anything—beyond _everything_. Even his morals. Even his soul.

Let her life speak for itself? No, not anymore, Hermione thought angrily. She may have come to this Palace voiceless, but she wouldn't go out that way. Not this time.

"Daph," Hermione said suddenly, sidling closer to Daphne under the guise of adjusting something on her gown, "what do you think about paying a visit to Harry and Pansy sometime this week? I thought possibly we should have a chat," she said in a low voice. "After all, I don't believe either of us have had the opportunity to acquaint ourselves with their new houseguest."

Draco and Theo weren't the only ones with codes. Daphne fixed an invisible seam on Hermione's gown and slid her a devious look of perfect understanding.

"Why, Hermione," Daphne replied, "I was thinking something quite similar myself."

* * *

For the record, I do see why people hate politics. There's no question that it's grimy and underhanded, or that most people who succeed at it are never the sorts of idealists they claim to be when they start out. Is there a chance that I may become a treacherous thing myself just by proximity to something so corrupt? Maybe so, but still. Probably no worse than I would be for proximity to the vault full of my husband's jewels, and I don't forget what Harry told Draco: That given what we have to become in order to preserve this world, there's no avoiding becoming whatever Abraxas has been, or Lucius, or worse.

Which isn't to say that Snape is right, or that Lupin really is the leak, or that anything I try to do within the small constraints of my power will be effective. All I'm saying is that perhaps Abraxas is mistaken about what's important, and that if dignity is something one can only achieve by doing nothing, then maybe it's an overrated quality after all.

I'm tired of fighting with one hand tied behind my back. If I'm going to be hated for my closeness to the crown, then so be it. They can hate me while I turn the Palace upside down.

* * *

_**a/n: **__Episodes 2 and 3 of __**Clara and the Devil**_ _are now available, and Episode 4 is coming this friday. Check my tumblr for updates if you need a link! Also available is my new book, __**Alone With You in the Ether**__, a romance about mental illness, time travel, and bees that you can find on my website, olivieblake dot com. Thanks for reading! Busy times, but hoping to get back on track with updates._


	11. A Fine Line Between Bold and Brash

**Chapter 11: A Fine Line Between Bold and Brash**

_**NOT JUST A RIVER IN JORDAN**__, BLM / he/him / friendly neighborhood lib  
__** leejordan**_

_HERMIONE GRANGER JUST SNAPPED_

_[video]_

_4:25 PM - 9 Dec 2019  
__**32.7K**_ _Retweets __**98.3M **__Likes_

Okay, so I know I've gone viral before, but…

Even for me, this is a new one.

* * *

_November 7, 2019  
Grimmauld Place, London, England_

Somewhere between Hermione's private life and her public one was a moment of decompression, like an empty void, where she usually stored the sorts of general existence-related angst she couldn't bring with her in front of the cameras. She took advantage of this just before getting out of the car, for instance, or before stepping outside her front door, which was why she began to think of thresholds—literally, the space between one place and the next—as having something of a magical transference. She imagined herself not only traveling from one room to another, but leaping into some other realm from the one she'd only just been. She would open a door and travel to another dimension, becoming more or less magical depending on the transference. There had to be some level of transcendence at work to explain how she could be Hermione on one side of a door and the Princess of Wales on the other.

Which was why an afternoon visit to Grimmauld Place left her with the sensation that she'd gotten splinched somehow, parts of her left in fractures from her efforts to leap. She was Hermione, close friend of Harry and Pansy, but for the first time she was acting, quietly, as Princess of Wales, because as much as she had been in this house several times before, she needed it to be something else today. Not a source of comfort, as it usually was. More like a battleground than not.

"I wondered when we would meet again," remarked Remus Lupin, privately. Hermione had taken the seat nearest to him, though he'd waited until Jamie had been distracted (clever Daphne had wrestled Prince Lucius, the dog, away from Theo for the afternoon and brought him along dressed in his finest tartan) before addressing her in a low tone of… not quite conspiracy, but certainly a bit of mild collusion. Across from them, Teddy sat solemnly in Pansy's lap, Daphne cooing over him from her seat beside Pansy. Daphne was ever so slightly more fond of Teddy, it seemed, probably because he wasn't nearly as wriggly as Jamie and therefore easier to admire as a prop or a quiet pet. In Hermione's opinion, Teddy most often wore an expression of absurdly solemn contemplation, as if he had strong opinions on most things in the room but didn't yet have the eloquence to express them.

Hermione did not reply directly to the intimation by Lupin, considering instead how best to leap to some sort of heightened amicability. After all, with Pansy here it would have to be something of a complex game—specifically, the game of convincing Lupin that he was trusted company while also _not_ revealing to Pansy that Hermione's trust was an obvious ruse.

The whole thing was just uncomfortable enough to be distantly nauseating.

"You seem to have settled in nicely," Hermione said, which was true enough. Remus Lupin was dressed casually, in navy trousers and a fairly Theo-esque chunky knit, and did not look so much like the vagrant she and Pansy had come across in the cafe. (Though he had grown a bit of a beard, which seemed to be contagious in this household.) "So you're Jamie's tutor now?" Hermione asked, pouring a bit more tea into her cup. Their early conversation had been mostly about her fondness for Earl Grey, which Pansy did not care for, and the indecencies of the weather.

"'Tutor' is a bit of a stretch," Lupin replied with a wry smile. To his credit, he did look openly fond of Jamie, who was currently trying to teach Prince Lucius (the dog) to read (she was at a precociously solid 35% literacy) from where they'd both collapsed onto a pile of pillows. "She's very like Harry was at that age. Inquisitive, brave. And also ever so slightly outraged."

"Over what?" Hermione asked, managing a genuine laugh. She certainly knew the eldest Potter child well enough to guess what he meant.

"Oh, any number of things. I believe someone may have inadvertently taught her a bit of British history," Lupin said with a glance at Pansy, who very noticeably did not make eye contact with either him or Hermione, "and therefore it has come to Jamie's attention that women were deprioritized in royal succession up until quite recently."

"Very recently," Hermione agreed, sipping her tea. "Is she very rebellious, then?"

"She's very right," Lupin said. "Though I daresay one can't grow up with a mother like hers and not learn how to make a persuasive point."

"Nonsense," said Pansy coolly. "She's her father's daughter, through and through."

The adults in the room all looked over at Jamie, as adults were wont to do when a child was the subject of discussion, and in response Jamie's brow furrowed.

"What?" she demanded, and then added very snidely, "We're _reading_," before going back to her childlike babbles to Prince Lucius.

Jamie did look extraordinarily like Harry, and for lack of a better word, her energy was also very Harry in that it did not seem to run out. Still, Hermione had to acknowledge that having Pansy for a mother would mean absorbing certain things by osmosis, and if among those things was Jamie's comfortable certainty that her ideas had value, then Pansy was an excellent model for womanhood indeed.

On another day, Hermione might have distracted herself with a wistful ponderance of what her own child might get from her, but at the moment her focus was Lupin, and specifically whether his admiration of Pansy was somehow treacherous. Was this why Pansy did not suspect him, and why she'd allowed him such unrestricted access in her home? Hermione had never known Pansy to be so easily won over by flattery, but something must have done it.

"I wonder if Jamie's shared any thoughts about politics yet," Hermione said, to which Daphne sat up slightly straighter, recognizing that the game was officially afoot. Pansy, meanwhile, gave Hermione a look of _politics, really? At _my _tea table? _

"Mama," said Teddy.

"I know, sweetheart," Pansy agreed, as if Teddy had said something entirely different, or even anything at all.

"I'm not sure we've gone into much detail on constitutional monarchies," Lupin replied to Hermione, half-smiling into his tea. "Perhaps next week?"

"I've always wondered what children become aware of," Hermione commented blithely. "You know, given the faces on the news and such. I remember learning about the 1996 presidential election in terms of whether I preferred a president with a cat or a dog."

"I can't say it's come up in our fingerpainting sessions," Lupin said.

Pansy gave Hermione a look that said _stop this nonsense_ while Daphne, much more helpfully, leaned over to pour herself a bit of milk. "You'll have to spend more time with her, Hermione, if you intend to turn Jamie into an activist," Daphne remarked cheerfully, at which point Lupin glanced sideways, amusement still restrained.

It occurred to Hermione then that Lupin was a much older man who'd willingly agreed to tea with three and a half women and a baby, and perhaps someone who'd once served as a ruthless barrister on behalf of a noble estate did not actively seek a career teaching small children. Would he have done this out of anything but impractical fondness? Perhaps a very pressing greed, but that seemed more sinister than he was capable of.

Still, that's what she'd come here to find out, and so she would. "I suppose it's no secret that I have my opinions," Hermione said, briefly weaponizing the tinkling sound of spoon against porcelain while she waited for Lupin's response.

"Harry tells me you're quite the philanthropist," he agreed after a moment.

"Oh, I don't know if I'd say philanthropist. Though I suppose I've always thought that term applied to people with a bit more… what would you call it, Pans? Panache?"

"Leave me out of it," Pansy sing-songed to Teddy, who was still staring skeptically at Hermione.

"In any case," Hermione said, angling herself towards Lupin, "I've always imagined that philanthropists see themselves as… separate somehow from politics, even though of course nothing is fully separate from politics. Even education, the so-called 'great equalizer,' is inherently political," she remarked, alluding at Lupin's own background.

He seemed to have taken the hint, registering it somewhat slyly behind his cup. "So not a philanthropist, then."

"Humanitarian, I hope," Hermione said. "But the practice of philanthropy is rather too tame."

"Ah, another revolutionary," Lupin observed, his expression warming. "What a relief I never had both you and Harry in the classroom."

A large part of Hermione wanted to ask about what Harry was like, purely out of interest for her friend, but again, there was a mission at hand. "I can't imagine either Harry or I handling Umbridge well at a younger age," she said, pushing her luck, or certainly her capacity for conversation. She was aware it wasn't the subtlest of segues, and in response Daphne became very interested in the plate of biscuits when Pansy turned to her with narrowed eyes, silently demanding an explanation.

"I'm relieved I'm no longer Harry's tutor, believe me," Lupin agreed, rising solemnly to his feet, "as I certainly would not know what to say to explain it. Luckily Jamie and I have plenty to do before we come to the process of parliamentary elections, don't we?" he said, nodding to Pansy and then turning back to Hermione. "It's been such a pleasure to chat with you both," he said with a glance between her and Daphne, "but I'd like to get a bit of music time in with Jamie before she inevitably cooks up some other plot of conquest."

Jamie, who'd shot to her feet at the sound of her name and the promise of mischief, was at Lupin's side at once, clinging to his trousers. "Can we show Prince Lucius the music room?" she barked at Lupin in childlike delight, speaking presumably of the dog. Lupin, meanwhile, looked at Daphne, who had been the Prince's chaperone.

"I can't imagine he'd protest," said Daphne, though considering Prince Lucius' natural expression was one of long-suffering malaise, all he did was protest. At present he stood morosely in his plaid, blinking owlishly at Jamie and mooning in the direction of the hearth.

"You must ask him politely," suggested Lupin to Jamie with a visibly suppressed look of sentiment, giving the women another nod in departure before allowing himself to be dragged from the room at the mercy of a four-year-old.

"Well," announced Pansy, rising tight-lipped to her feet. "Give me a moment, would you?"

She slid Teddy to her hip and strode out of the room, leaving Daphne and Hermione alone together.

"I can't say that was particularly effective," Hermione lamented in a low voice, to which Daphne, playing the optimist, gave a reassuring shrug.

"You did at least express some displeasure in Umbridge," she said. "And if he's looking for a story to sell, that would be the one."

"Still, I should have brought up Bagman, or at least given him some kind of memorable soundbyte—"

She stopped as Pansy suddenly strode back into the room, resuming her seat as if nothing had happened. For an extended period of guilty commiseration, Daphne and Hermione sat frozen in anticipation for a lecture that didn't come, and within less than thirty seconds—during which Pansy carefully but mindlessly attended to the pleats of her skirt—there was a knock at the open door.

"Ma'am?" came the voice of a woman who must have been around their age, or possibly a bit older. She had reddish curls but was otherwise not very distinctive, though it occurred to Hermione, distantly, that they had met before. "Pardon the interruption," the woman said, "but I wondered if I could review your schedule for the week before I step out for the afternoon? Perhaps we could speak privately for just a moment," she added, curtsying to Hermione and nodding to Daphne.

"Oh Marietta, don't be silly, now's as good a time as any," Pansy said, waving a hand over her shoulder dismissively to the person Hermione was now faintly aware was Pansy's personal secretary. "Have a seat, would you? And as for you," Pansy continued, turning to Hermione as if they'd been mid-conversation before Marietta's arrival, "you really must keep your loathing of Umbridge to yourself. It's one thing to criticise the American president for his policy and quite another to be so outspoken when it comes to the Prime Minister."

"I," Hermione began, confused, as Marietta took a seat beside Pansy. "I wasn't trying t-"

"We all know your feelings on the political climate, my dear," Pansy continued in what appeared to be an entirely one-sided soliloquy, "but the Palace has already made it more than clear that your place in this discussion is a silent one. Regardless of your concern about anti-immigrant sentiment or the inevitable devastation of isolationist policy on the economy and the U.K. as a whole, I simply won't hear another word on the subject, and neither will His Majesty. More tea?" she offered, expertly shifting Teddy to take the pot in hand.

"Er… please," said Hermione, managing somehow to make a sound despite her growing confusion. Daphne, too, was staring somewhat openly at Pansy until she shifted in her chair, resulting in a swift kick to Daphne's ankle.

"Apologies, Marietta," Pansy said, "forgive me. You were saying about my schedule?"

Hermione kept her bewildered gaze on her tea as Marietta rambled off a series of events for the week, to which Pansy gave her approval. After less than two minutes, Marietta had curtsied and exited the room, leaving Hermione, Pansy, and Daphne alone once more (with Teddy, who unlike Hermione, felt soothed enough to take a little snooze on Pansy's shoulder).

"You little sneak," said Pansy once Marietta had gone. "If you were going to do something foolish you might have at least been clever about it."

"What?" squawked Hermione.

"Lupin isn't the leak, you utter buffoon," Pansy said. "And if he were, you'd have managed absolutely nothing with all your tiptoeing about. You ought to have gotten drunk or something, or at least a bit tipsy," she advised. "Otherwise there's absolutely no explanation for the small stroke you just had on my sofa."

"I didn't have a small str-" Hermione broke off. "Wait, you know there's a leak?"

"Of course I know there's a leak," Pansy said irritably, to which clarity appeared to dawn on Daphne's face. "May I point out that if the two of you believed I had a leak in my household and _said nothing_, that was rather unhelpful and, dare I say, unfeminist?"

"Oh, hush," said Daphne, but Hermione was still too shaken by the idea that Pansy had known this all along.

"Your _secretary_ is the leak?" she said, astounded. "Then why on earth is she _still_ your secretary?"

"Well, for one thing it's quite useful," Pansy said, gesturing to Marietta's empty chair while petting her son's sleeping back. "You obviously wanted to show your divergence from Abraxas on the subject of Umbridge and frankly, I don't blame you. Blame Henry for my radical nature," she added with a sigh, to which Daphne choked on her sip of tea, "but I quite agree that you have more to gain by being open about this. If Umbridge gets her way, Britain's fate will be sealed by next month. Somebody ought to say something."

"But still, Pansy, that's such a violation of your privacy!" Hermione said, who was as horrified with this revelation as she was pleased to have found an unexpected ally. The idea that Astoria or Padma might turn around and sell her own private conversations to the tabloids was enough to make her skin crawl. After all, how many alarmingly personal things had she said to them without even thinking twice?

Daphne, too, nodded with equal disturbance. "I've never thought of you as someone to shy away from vengeance, Pans."

"I hope you don't suspect me of some other virtue? That's an insult in my own home and I will not have it," Pansy said. "Of course I'd prefer to destroy the little wretch but look at her, she's merely a plant or a bug or something. Someone's clearly put her here," Pansy said with a look of utter violence, "and until I get the sort of proof that can ruin that person properly, I'm certainly not putting her out."

"Who do you think it is?" Hermione asked bracingly. "Skeeter?"

"I can't imagine who else," Pansy muttered, to which Daphne shuddered with revulsion. "I wouldn't be surprised if this is her idea of revenge for my outmaneuvering her before your wedding."

"So the article that was just printed about Abraxas," Hermione recalled with a frown, referencing the recent piece accusing the King of commiserating with the peerage to secure Umbridge's selection as Prime Minister. "Draco said he mentioned his suspicions to Harry in private. Was that her as well?"

"Well, I'm sure they thought it was private," Pansy said, her expression souring a bit. "Harry doesn't know about my secretary's proclivity for lurking."

"Wait—so Harry doesn't know about this?" Hermione echoed, aghast, as Daphne, too, set her cup down with a look of dismay. "But Pansy—"

"If he knew she'd been selling out our family, he'd have her sacked immediately," Pansy cut in with a _you know this_ sort of glance, with which Hermione certainly couldn't disagree. "You know Harry's protective. Vengeance or no vengeance, he'd never allow her to set foot in the house again."

"He might be right to want that," Daphne said, to which Pansy offered a grimace of acknowledgement.

"It's not my favorite thing I've ever done, but I'm hoping she reveals herself sooner rather than later. In the meantime," she added with a glance at Hermione, "I've told Harry to be a bit more vigilant about where he has these sorts of conversations. And at very least, something may come out of this for you. You're much more popular these days than the Palace will admit," Pansy commented neutrally. "Good or bad, any piece about you is guaranteed an audience. And if your opinion counts for as much it should, you may be precisely the thing to secure an Umbridge loss in the general election."

Hermione wanted to press her on that (obviously) but Daphne cut in before she could, still intent on the subject of Marietta.

"Who is this person, anyway?" Daphne pressed. "Surely you must have hired her for a reason? She can't just be some sort of Skeeter plant without any qualifications at all."

"She's an Edgecombe," Pansy confirmed, which must have meant something to Daphne. "Her grandmother on her father's side was lady-in-waiting to Queen Adelaide and her mother is a courtier at the Palace. All her references were glowing—I had no reason to suspect her until she became the common link for all the leaked details of our whereabouts. Given her background, I have to imagine that if Rita Skeeter must have something on her to put her in this position," Pansy added, diplomatically reconciling the point, "in which case it's not entirely Marietta's fault."

"That's surprisingly sympathetic of you," Hermione said, exchanging a glance with Daphne.

"Well, I _am_ a mother now, you heathens," Pansy sniffed. "And besides, if it does turn out that she's a snitch, then I'll have a much more enjoyable payout when I've ensured that she never works again."

"There she is," Daphne acknowledged with approval, chuckling to herself as the world seemed to return to normal.

At that moment, though, Hermione suddenly recalled what Pansy had said about Lupin not being the leak, and she felt a sudden rush of things she might have wanted to discuss with him if not for being distracted by her mission.

"So… Lupin," she ventured. "You genuinely like him, then? You trust him?"

Pansy was quiet a moment before answering, her hand slowing from where she'd been soothing Teddy.

"Jamie adores him," she said eventually. "And I'm sure it's no surprise to anyone that Harry does, too. He's quite a stabilizing influence, actually, Remus. Having him around is…" She went briefly distant again. "A bit like having Harry's father here, or something of the sort."

"Having a father in general, you mean," murmured Daphne.

This, Hermione thought, was yet another of the arenas where Daphne and Pansy were more suited to understanding each other than she was to understanding either of them. Hermione had grown up with dad jokes at the expense of her constant mortification, rendering her own father as reliable as he was annoying, but most likely Daphne and Pansy had lacked the safety of ever believing a man was on their side. As far as Hermione could tell, both were subjected to the expectations of their fathers rather than granted either their time or their affection, and everything she knew about them suggested that neither daughter had ever been granted their father's approval. That both of them had found the ability to trust the love of the men they'd married was remarkable in that respect, when everything Hermione knew about the world suggested Pansy and Daphne might have gravitated to men who were cold and distant instead.

She knew Pansy and Daphne were close to David the same way Draco was close to Helen, but she hadn't quite understood why until just then.

"Well, I'm happy for you," Hermione said, smiling at Pansy in a way she hoped would contain the things Pansy would never allow her to say aloud. "He does seem to really adore your family. All of you," she added, because even she had noticed how complimenting Lupin had been of Pansy. Now that Hermione could see the conversation in a different light, Lupin had made his admiration of Pansy very clear. Whether or not he was a troubling addition to the Grimmauld household, Hermione was grateful to him for that.

"If only you were not such a buffoon," Pansy replied, humming softly into her sleeping baby's curls.

* * *

Despite the generally pervasive belief that one gradually became accustomed to the appearance of one's spouse, there were times when Hermione still felt overwhelmed with attraction to her husband. Watching him fill a pair of trousers whilst in military dress never became less exciting, and there were moments when the outline of his shoulders beneath a crisp white shirt filled her with a lust so consuming she half-wondered if she were some sort of pervert. Her mouth, as it turned out, could still very much water at the sight of him, and she could never decide what was more appealing: the Prince of Wales who graced the cover of a thousand thirsty magazines, or the man no one but her got to see, occasionally lifting heavy things from inside his home gym and then proceeding to walk shirtless around her kitchen. When he slid a wedding-ringed hand absentmindedly through his hair, it was all she could do not to let her insides reform themselves around the singular sensation of _mine_.

He smelled like salt and laundry when she slid onto his lap, his skin cool beneath the film of sweat, and his lips met her shoulder with an invitation to amplify things greatly. Maybe it was a matter of endorphins and pheromones, but they made quick work of letting things escalate. Which wasn't to say they didn't always have Very Good Sex whenever the mood struck, but the return to the desperation of 'right now and partially clothed' over 'we have a perfectly good bedroom upstairs' felt like a lovely bit of raunch for an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday.

"Out of curiosity," Hermione asked when they'd slid into the shower, "what was your grandmother like?"

Draco squinted down at her from beneath a shampooed froth. "Don't tell me you've just spent the last half hour thinking about my grandmother."

"Don't be ridiculous, I was busy thinking about your butt," Hermione assured him, lathering up her own hair and nudging him aside. "The grandmother curiosity is more of an afterthought."

In reality she had been thinking more of family in general, as an institutional matter. Ever since the realization that Pansy and Harry's children lacked proper grandparents—for which Hermione had supposed Lupin was the closest thing, minus Pansy's emotionally unavailable and honestly quite monstrous mother—Hermione had been wondering about Draco's upbringing.

"Which grandmother?" Draco asked.

"Oh," Hermione said, remembering once again that Narcissa was also (presumably) a person who had once been a human child. "I meant the Queen, though I suppose I hadn't given any thought to your other one. Why, what was she like?"

"What do you mean 'was'?" Draco said, scrubbing at his cheeks. Men, Hermione thought with a sigh. For them skincare was just sliding a bit of shampoo around and hoping it did something for his pores.

"What?" she asked, distracted for a moment by the shape of his back. She drew a finger over his shoulders, resting her thumb in one of the little dimples at the base of his spine. The bluish cast of twilight that fell over his skin from the window formed a serene sort of spotlight.

"Well, you've met her twice, at least."

"I've what?" Hermione asked, suddenly glancing up in alarm. "I think I'd know if I'd met your dead grandmother!"

"Dead?" he echoed, twisting around beneath the water and clearing soap from his eyes to frown down at her. "What makes you think she's dead? She was at our wedding."

"I… _what_?" Hermione demanded.

"My goodness, I can't imagine how you could miss her, she's positively decrepit," came a voice outside the shower, prompting Hermione to abruptly freeze. "How old is Druella now? Well into her hundreds, I imagine—"

"HORTENSE," Draco bellowed over Hermione's head. "WE'VE DISCUSSED THIS."

"As far as I know the woman's immortal," replied Thibaut's voice. "The cursed kind, not the kind that starts out human."

"Oh yes, like a ghoul," Hortense said cheerfully.

"Yes, precisely—"

"How did they get in?" Hermione whisper-panicked to Draco.

"I've stopped asking," Draco replied, adding once again, "HORTENSE! PRIVACY, PLEASE!"

"Take your time, Draco, we're not fussed," Hortense called back from somewhere in their bedroom.

"I'm not surprised she didn't recognize Lady Druella," Thibaut remarked, equally not very near and not nearly far enough. By the sounds of it, he was sorting through their books, or what Hermione hoped were their books. "I believe she exclusively appears in her natural form of a bridge troll unless it's the third full moon of the year."

"Why did you think she was dead?" Draco asked Hermione, bemused.

"Because Narcissa always talks about her as if she is," hissed Hermione in response, unsure whether to fold her arms tightly over her breasts, which felt a bit oddly massive at the moment. There were, in an instant, too many things to cover for having only two hands.

"Well, that's no surprise," commented Hortense, whose hearing appeared to be exceptional from a distance (unless she was being firmly instructed to leave). "By the way, Draco, is this tuxedo unisex? Never mind, I'll sort it—"

"And it's not as if you ever introduced her as your grandmother," Hermione said, trying and failing to remember a decrepit woman named Lady Druella. Surely that should stick out? Hermione had certainly met a lot of people who were "related" to Draco in some way or another, but she was profoundly startled to discover that the woman who'd birthed both Narcissa and Bellatrix was somehow still alive.

"She's really not the 'Granny' type," said Draco.

"Fluffy towels," remarked Thibaut, adding, "It's not as if the Blacks are free from scandal. I'm sure if she weren't a demon and therefore supernaturally disqualified, Druella would have locked herself in a nunnery with shame around 1992."

"Why do these two always show up to tell me about your family history?" Hermione said, frowning up at Draco.

"The same reason we can't put them out," Draco said. "They know too much."

"The point is, Draco, it's not a crime to stray from blue shirts," chirped Hortense, who had apparently been having a conversation none of the rest of them were aware of. "And on a similar note, Druella rarely leaves the safety of her crypt, so I can't see how this is relevant to anything."

"It's true," Draco said to Hermione with a shrug, giving one of her sopping curls a playful tug. "I've met her a handful of times and occasionally received presents on birthdays or holidays, but she and Mother hardly speak."

"Oh," said Hermione, before resigning herself to call out to Hortense with a sigh, "So what was Adelaide like, then?"

"PRIVACY, PLEASE!" Hortense replied in dismay, a door slamming to muffle her voice as it distanced itself down the corridor.

"You should ask my father," Draco said, laughing at the murderous expression on Hermione's face. "He was close to her, I think. Also I think they may be gone now," he added as they traded places beneath the showerhead.

"You think?" Hermione echoed.

"Well you know them, there's never any telling—"

"No, I meant your father," she said with a roll of her eyes, tipping her head back below the water stream. "You _think_ he was close to your grandmother?"

"Well, it's not as if…" Draco trailed off. "I suppose I don't know how to explain to the daughter of Helen and David Granger that the parent-child relationship is somewhat fraught when one's heirs are destined to replace you," he said, in something of a light-hearted tone.

Translation: Draco did not have a normal childhood, which was something Hermione already knew, and yet was constantly in the process of realizing.

"Well, your grandfather says you got your charm from her," Hermione recalled, reaching up to touch his face. She was rewarded with the smile below her fingers, and a brush from his lips to the palm of her hand.

"Well, then I suppose she was deeply charming," he agreed, reaching out for the fresh towel Thibaut must have laid out for them (a detail Hermione chose to think of as thoughtful rather than invasive, purely as a coping mechanism) and pulling her back to their bed.

* * *

When it came out around the middle of the week that Hermione secretly opposed Umbridge, backlash from the Palace was swift. Not publicly, of course, as Buckingham Palace would never deign to address something so absurd as to accuse the Princess of Wales of having opinions, but internally the shift was night and day. There seemed to be a sudden halt on Padma's end, as if the entirety of the British monarchy had simultaneously changed her name in their phone to Do Not Answer. Even Percy, who would normally defend even the most irascible of bureaucratic delays, seemed confounded by his inability to move forward with uncomplicated press releases. Hermione's entire office was being punished for what was understood to be a breakdown in communication somewhere—had one of their staff accidentally said something to an opportunistic friend? Could someone's own _mother_ no longer be trusted?—and she hated that she couldn't tell them why. Not that she didn't trust them, but she felt plausible deniability was important on their end. She didn't need any of her staff getting sacked for being complicit in her rather idealistic plan.

And it _was_ idealistic, because the results were mixed at best. Umbridge had managed to call for a Christmastime general election as of the most recent Brexit delay, and despite Hermione's belief that everyone should have already assumed that she did not support Umbridge in the slightest, articles about her political opinions began circling in nearly every periodical. There was the expected backlash, of course, largely from the _Daily Prophet_ enthusiasts and the Dursley corner, who were unfortunately still being contacted for quotes. "Haven't we all bent enough of the rules for her to get that woman's grubby hands on the throne? If she can't get behind the rest of this country, then so be it," was Vernon Dursley's proclamation on the matter. "It's not as if the country's ever been behind her."

Hermione had already accepted that no Dursley (or otherwise Skeeterific source of commentary) would ever approve of anything she did, so that was hardly anything new. What was considerably better was her coverage in female-dominated periodicals: _British Vogue, Glamour UK, Scottish Woman_, _Woman's Weekly_, even the British _Cosmopolitan. _Understandably, such sources were not the go-to periodicals for royal outreach, so Hermione doubted the Palace had ever lent them a second thought. The fact was, though, that the people in Hermione's corner were precisely the demographic the royals regularly overlooked: young women.

_Here's what's wrong with the Princess of Wales_, began an opinion piece that Hermione was almost frightened to continue reading. _She doesn't behave like a princess. She looks nervous in public sometimes and her hair is occasionally a bit of a mess. She didn't grow up in the system of peerage and occasionally still looks surprised to be there, like maybe someone might have made a mistake. Sometimes she laughs too loudly in pictures or talks so much that she looks more alive than the people she's actually talking to. She stares at her husband—haven't we all?—and looks ready to unwrap him at literally any moment. Now it turns out she accidentally confessed that she thinks Bagman is repulsive and that Brexit is a sham, which by the sounds of it is something she may have said while she was a wee bit tipsy. If that's not relatable, what is? I'm just going to come out and say it: I may find no use for the monarchy—who, let's not forget, have offered nothing outside of a Christmas card in terms of political stability—but I like the Princess of Wales._

Voters under forty had chosen overwhelmingly to remain in the E.U., and more of them were yet coming of age in the time since the initial Brexit vote. To them, the revelation that Hermione, a woman of their generation if not their class, shared their beliefs was unifying, and Hermione's presence in social media surged beyond even her previous ubiquity.

For the first time that she was aware, people were taking ownership of her. For the first time, she was not simply _a_ princess, she was _theirs_.

A matter of days after the story broke, though, came a surprising reaction from Draco—one that Hermione had not seen coming.

"Honestly," Hermione sighed, tossing aside yet another nauseating opinion piece about how very challenging she was as a person and how terribly unsuitable as a woman, but to her surprise, Draco's entire frame stiffened.

"I have to call my father," he said, and rose sharply to his feet, disappearing from the room.

Hermione opted to permit Draco his little oddities (they were, after all, quite rare) and turned her attention elsewhere, invigorated by her tiny particle of success despite the overall queasiness of the situation. She started in on Astoria, at first, whom she had recently begun to prod. She never wanted to overstep, seeing as she was more employer than friend, but she had always been very adamant about her feelings on isolationist policy, even personal ones. The wellness of the women in her office was rather more important than her need to stay out of it. (And, as Pansy had said, Hermione's sense of when to stay out of things was never as effective as it ought to be.)

Predictably, their conversation started out as artless as the one with Lupin, though thankfully Astoria knew Hermione well enough to shut her down before she became too devoted to hapless subtlety. "You want to know how I'm handling it," Astoria guessed, waiting until Hermione had fumbled herself into a complicated game of Taboo wherein she could not use the words "pregnancy," "baby," or "marriage."

"Alex is thrilled," said Astoria unemotionally, closing the door on the subject with a single underwhelming response. "He'll be a wonderful father."

Oh yes, very doting, Hermione was caustically certain. Whatever 'doting' seemed to mean in these sorts of circles, which clearly did not include the emotional grunt work that somehow only motherhood implied.

The subject of fathers or impending ones being increasingly unavoidable, Hermione began to push her boundaries elsewhere, and specifically in the direction of Blaise. Given that Theo and Harry came and went in a stream of increasing agitation, she assumed that Blaise had been temporarily shifted to a more distant point of friend-orbit. Part of that was Blaise's own doing, having retreated from their usual group as a result of one crisis or another, but having donned the official spirit of This Is Nonsense Let's Just Have A Chat Already, Hermione summoned him to her sitting room for yet another candid chat.

"So," she said, "Neville."

Blaise gave a theatrical sigh. "Nothing's ha-"

"Nothing's happened, yes, I know," Hermione cut in. "And don't think I'm pleased about it."

Blaise gave her a half-amused look of wry and deliberate silence.

"You can take all the points you like," Hermione added, perhaps a bit boastfully.

Silence.

"Well, to a reasonable extent," she sighed, withering. "Or I suppose we could discuss the weather."

"It's been very grey," Blaise acknowledged.

"True. I've been so tired lately," Hermione commented, feeling the throb of a burgeoning headache as she spoke. "Winter blues, I suppose. Though, in England's defense, it really doesn't get as cold as I th-"

"Also," Blaise said, "I kissed Tracey."

"-ought," Hermione finished, and blinked. "Old Tracey? Tracey Davis?"

His laugh in return was ashen and sad. "Oh, do you know her?"

"Don't joke," Hermione warned. "Obviously you'd like to tell me the truth, so just tell it."

Blaise cast his glance aside.

"It's a bit of a longer story," he said.

"Okay," Hermione agreed, doing her best to keep her expression to some reasonable neutrality. "Start from the beginning, then."

It turned out Blaise's month had been a confusing one, to say the least. The story began with a recounting of his reconnection with Tracey, which Hermione already knew about, and the offer she'd presented to him some weeks ago, which was a matter that Hermione had very skillfully not pressed until now. What Hermione had _not_ known was that as a result of this offer, Tracey and Blaise had begun meeting semi-regularly for coffee, never longer than thirty minutes or so, just to build a collective daydream of what the process would look like, what the doctor had already told Tracey, what their fertilization approach would be, et cetera. They had a very sterile process in mind, Blaise explained, for obvious reasons. It would be as if they were each acquiring a donor, only in this case it was more like a business venture. They would both equally invest in the outcome of a child.

"So have you already decided to do it, then?" Hermione asked.

"I… hadn't yet, no," Blaise said evasively, "but it seemed worth it to begin drawing up a sort of contract between us. Something to make it clear to both of us how all the details would go."

Neville, Blaise said, had been something of a non-issue at the time, given his semi-casual relationship with the footballer Cedric Diggory, who unbeknownst to Blaise had actually called it off with Neville some weeks before. It seemed to be a mixture of public pressure and a difficult mismatch of schedules; neither had been especially committed at the beginning, and the scrutiny that followed was enough to send both men back to their various caves of isolation, or so Cedric and Neville had agreed. For Neville, Blaise said, there was a bit of anger in retrospect—having given up his gran's affections in order to live as freely as he wished, Neville expected to be with someone equally unafraid. As good as things had been with Cedric, Neville was confident that he was not the one.

And then Neville's grandmother had died, and if that were not stressful enough, Neville was contacted shortly afterwards to discover that despite their estrangement, he had inherited her entire estate. Also, his even more estranged mother had resurfaced.

"Holy forks," breathed Hermione.

"Essentially yes," was Blaise's reply.

Blaise had received the unexpected call from Neville while having coffee with Tracey. The appearance of Neville's name on the screen had given Tracey something of an unfortunate relapse of old feelings, and she fumbled for the exit while Blaise rushed to ignore the call. He had no reason to believe it was important, he explained to Hermione, and in the moment, it seemed a fairly straightforward calculation. He caught Tracey's hand, convinced her to stay, and then they walked around aimlessly for nearly five hours, rehashing the pain he'd caused her and revisiting the subject, more calmly this time, of whether his feelings had ever been real. He told her again that they had, and, believing that he'd convinced her, they parted amicably and with what Blaise argued to be satisfactory closure, at which point he returned Neville's call. He had never hated himself more, he confessed to Hermione, than the moment Neville answered the phone with that dull, half-present, "Hello, then. She's gone."

"You can't blame yourself for that," Hermione insisted. "You were there for him once you got the call, weren't you?"

"I was," Blaise said, looking somehow guiltier. "I don't think I left his side for a week, not even for a moment."

"And then?" Hermione asked, bracing herself.

At some point Tracey called to confirm their weekly coffee, and Blaise, unsure how to detangle himself from Neville's ongoing needs—emotional devastation aside, Neville was overrun with legal paperwork, particularly where it came to power of attorney over his father, and still hadn't brought himself to return his mother's calls, leaving Blaise encumbered with all sorts of financial witchery that Hermione (and clearly also Neville) only half-understood—decided it was best to tell Neville the truth. Specifically, that Tracey had asked for a baby, and that Blaise was seriously considering it.

Hermione had her knees pulled to her chest, eyes wide. "Surely he didn't take it badly? According to Pansy he'd been willing to raise Jamie," she pointed out in reference to one of their older crises, and Blaise smiled thinly.

"I wouldn't say he took it badly, no," he agreed. "Though I would argue he didn't take it at all."

Initially Neville was pleased for him, he said. He said it, "I'm so pleased," and then wandered off and took a nap or something and so Blaise went to coffee with Tracey. They discussed ordinary things, like how much money they ought to set aside for their child's trust fund without making them an insufferable trust fund prick or whether they'd raise the baby to be religious. Then they hugged and Blaise returned to Neville's flat to find an empty bottle and a slurring Neville, who managed incoherently to say, "So is it our baby then, or just yours?"

"Oh," Hermione exhaled through her hands.

"Right," Blaise agreed. "Rather not the unexpected emotional cataclysm I suspected I'd come home to."

Blaise put off answering, he explained, because he felt Neville was still a bit too wretched with grief to sort out reality. For one thing, it wasn't at all clear that Neville was done with Cedric, who still rang from time to time, and whose calls Neville habitually stepped into another room to take privately. For another, Blaise and Neville hadn't been intimate in… well, minus the occasional very inadvisable drunken snog, which, prior to these events, had always ended with the two of them laughing and heading to their separate beds.

Since Neville's gran had died, they'd been sharing Neville's bed (Blaise had slept on the sofa for one night and then given up on the basis of mortifying discomfort) but nothing more had happened. Now, though, it had become apparent to Blaise that Neville expected it to.

"And you?" Hermione asked. "Did you expect it?"

Blaise looked momentarily tormented.

"Let's come back to that," he said, continuing on in the story as Hermione reached around, removing her bra and wondering why she hadn't done so much earlier. By that point it had been nearly an hour, and it wasn't as if her breasts—noticeable though they happened to be at the moment—had ever held any interest for Blaise.

When it became clear that Blaise would have to do something about all these little bits and ends of fraying pieces in his personal life, he mentioned to Percy—

"Percy?" echoed Hermione, surprised.

"Well, you remember his son," Blaise explained. "Will?"

"Yes, of course," said Hermione, who made it her business to remember things, generally, though she'd conveniently misplaced that particular bit of knowledge. "You spent that one afternoon with him, didn't you?"

More than one, as it turned out. "We started doing the occasional meet-up," Blaise said. "Will's a bit of a sporting lad and Percy, delicate thing that he is"—this Blaise had said with a chuckle, so it must have been an inside joke—"really isn't. We play in the park or chat a bit, that's all. I like him," Blaise said, and before Hermione could clarify the point, he'd already added, "He's a good sort, Will. Just a bit lost, that's all."

"Lost?" Hermione echoed.

There seemed to be something on the tip of Blaise's tongue.

"I suppose I know what it is to want a fresh start," he said, and a second time, before Hermione could press him on the subject, he was off again with the rest of his story. "Percy very rightfully suggested I come clean with all involved parties—"

"And this is something the two of you discussed casually over a bit of footie in the park?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," said Blaise dismissively, and as a favor to him, Hermione refrained from calling him a liar.

Blaise had decided to tell Tracey that there was a possibility he might, in the future, be back with Neville romantically, in which case she would have to become accustomed to seeing things like Neville's name on his phone, which he would obviously have to answer. He had no intention to cause her further pain, and if it would be harmful to be dragged back into some piece of her life that she'd already closed the door on, he understood and wished her well. His exact words, he said, were these: "I will always love you, and you will always have a friend in me."

How it progressed from there was unclear to him. Perhaps it was that they'd gone to dinner and split a bottle of wine rather than meeting up for coffee. Possibly it was the intimacy of the restaurant or the feeling that now they were honest with each other, possibly for the first time, and there was something repaired between them; something that had always been comfortable, and which was still comfortable now. She had said I've always imagined you as the father of my child and he had replied that he'd always imagined her as the mother, and presumably it was this mutual confession that led them to pause outside the door of her flat and share—yes, share, both parties equally guilty—a goodnight kiss.

Guilt roiled in Blaise's stomach, obviously, when he came home to find Neville sitting there, staring blankly into space, saying things like is this what it will be for us, to which Blaise had been forced to ask is there an us, and Neville had said of course there is, there has always been, there always will be. The irony of professing two statements of eternal love in a single night was not lost on Blaise, who did, with all his heart, believe equally that he would forever love Tracey Davis and be forever in love with Neville Longbottom, and therefore he would be perpetually torn between them. Perhaps it was a bad idea, he said to Neville.

Perhaps it was, Neville said to him.

And that, Blaise said, was when he knew.

"I want the baby," he said, finally seeming to arrive at the crux of his issue. "I want everything, seemingly, but that's just it. No matter what I want in my own life, I want the baby more."

Hermione let out a swiftly sharp breath. "But…"

"I know," said Blaise.

He'd told Tracey his decision, adding that they should not find themselves in the perilous situation of becoming romantic again. He knew she would never fully trust him again, and he didn't want her to be in that position. He told Neville his decision as well, saying that if there was a future for them—which potentially there could be—it would have to involve Blaise's child, which he was going to have with Tracey.

Both agreed.

"They _agreed_?" Hermione marveled, stunned.

"I know," said Blaise again, cradling his head in one hand as if he, too, still found it incredible to the point of impossibility. "Percy said I'd probably done it thinking one of them would refuse, and then that would be my decision made."

Percy sounded right, which was unsurprising. "So what would you have done if one of them said no, then?"

"Sorted it somehow, I suppose," Blaise said uneasily.

"But you said you wanted the baby," Hermione said, frowning.

"Yes."

"So if Neville had said no…" She trailed off. "Oh," she said quietly, realizing why he had opened the conversation with a statement of guilt rather than one of relief or joy or excitement. "You think Neville knows that he had to agree in order to get you to stay?"

"I think," Blaise began, and paused. "I think that at this precise moment, Neville is in love with me and wants very much for me to be happy. I think he loves me enough to say yes."

"But?" Hermione asked, half-holding her breath. No wonder people got so drawn into soap operas. She was terribly invested in the outcome of this particular plot.

"But," Blaise agreed, exhaling. "I'm not sure I can allow him to do that."

"Allow him?" Hermione echoed. "But it's his choice, isn't it?"

"He may resent me," Blaise said, and then, swallowing, "I think it likely that he will resent me, or that he resents me already."

"You can't assume that," Hermione said, albeit with some uncertainty.

"I think if it were another woman, any woman, he would be happier," Blaise confided. "But it isn't any woman. It's Tracey. And for her, it isn't just any man. It's Neville."

"So how did she take your—" Rejection seemed a harsh word. "Suggestion of boundaries?"

"I think, in this, she and I are more aligned than not," Blaise said with a wry half-smile. "She wants the baby. So do I. We can keep our hands off each other for a more cerebral love, I suspect. A fraternal one, for lack of a better word."

"And that's not enough reassurance for Neville?" asked Hermione tentatively, though she thought she understood it. The idea of Draco having a baby with someone else… it could only be a loss, something of theirs that she'd never recover. True, the details were drastically different between Blaise's situation and the theoretical one in her head, but still.

"This baby, it would mean that Tracey and I are forever," Blaise explained, echoing her thoughts precisely. "Neville and I… we may yet have an end, which isn't a very secure place to be, and I understand that. I suppose that's why I expected him to fight me on the subject."

"Have you even had a beginning?" Hermione pressed him. "A real one, anyway? A new one, with a fresh start?"

"It almost feels more as if we've picked up somewhere in the middle," Blaise admitted. "Me helping to carry his loss, him helping to carry my future. It's all muddled together, love and everything. I expect most people build something together first before they find themselves burdened with all this."

"That doesn't mean it can't happen," Hermione said softly, hoping to give him the reassurance that his story didn't have to look like anyone else's. It could be his story, and that would make it good, and right.

Blaise smiled at her in a rare way, a quiet way.

"You know, Tracey told me I'd forever be impossible to love because my heart's already been split into pieces," he commented. "I can't give all of it to anyone because so much of it already belongs to that sweet summer prince upstairs."

"And me," was Hermione's juvenile protest, to which Blaise's smile broadened.

"And you," he agreed, which felt suspiciously like an outpouring of points.

* * *

Hermione was surprised and pleased to find she'd gotten through the whole conversation with Blaise without suffering any crippling surges of envy. Possibly part of that was a certain smugness of knowing better—she and Tracey were the same age, so it wasn't as if this would come so very easily for one of them if it didn't the other—and part of it was probably the fascination of Blaise's emotional turmoil, which was distractingly different from Hermione's own. Thank _god_ she no longer had to worry about dating or accidentally feeling sentimental enough to kiss someone she shouldn't. All that rode on Hermione's shoulders was the future of the British monarchy, which was really quite straightforward by comparison.

Blaise, conveniently, shed a very helpful light on Draco's unexpected outcry of "I have to call my father" after seeing the tabloid cover about Hermione being Hermione, though knowing what it was all about was not actually the reassurance Hermione had been expecting.

"Well, it's an old trick," Blaise explained. "The timely release of some overhyped royal salacity in order to overshadow something of actual substance."

"You think the article about me came out because of the one about Abraxas?"

"I think Draco thinks so," Blaise confirmed, adding, "It does have a ring of familiarity," apparently in reference to the way Hermione had been dealt with by the media during their early years, particularly whenever Lucius' sordid past was once again of public interest. Not that Hermione had ever thought about it much, but coincidentally, personal intrigue about her had always blended with instances of the monarchy's slipping approval. She'd always assumed one was a pressure point for the other, not that one was potentially contrived.

"You don't actually think the Palace would attack me just to overshadow the possibility of Abraxas' wrongdoing, do you?"

"I don't know," Blaise said. "And presumably Draco doesn't know either, hence the call to the man downstairs."

While it would have made a much more ironic entry if the sound of aristocratic footsteps had directly followed that particular remark, but it wasn't until well after Blaise and Hermione had ventured into a renewed discussion about whether Hortense and Thibaut could summon demons and therefore potentially alter the 2020 presidential election that Prince Lucius (the man—the dog, who'd come over earlier with Theo, was already sleeping beside the fireplace) poked his head into the sitting room.

"Hello," Lucius said, extending an arm towards her as Hermione rose to his feet to greet him. "Is Draco upstairs?"

"Yes," she said, offering one of those very British air kisses to his cheek that she'd somehow begun doing before accepting one in return. "Everything alright?"

"Just a bit of skullduggery," Lucius joked, nodding to Blaise and then turning to the stairs, the other Prince Lucius trotting after him like an aptly named shadow.

"Well," Hermione said, watching him go. "He must think it's important if he's come by in person."

"Or perhaps he's bored," Blaise said. "I've never been a retired crown prince myself, but I can only imagine it hasn't quite got the zazz of public service."

"Well," came Narcissa's voice, before materializing to scowl elegantly around the room. She was wearing something Hermione had come to think of as a traveling outfit for her, largely in that it looked very soft and was monochrome. In Hermione's mind, it was the equivalent of a velour tracksuit for the gracefully upper crust. "So I suppose you're all doing this, then."

Hermione had wondered whether Lucius had come alone. Evidently not.

"Draco's upstairs with Lucius," she said, and Narcissa glanced up, then sighed.

"I suppose I'll just sit here with the children," she informed the air, which had been Hermione's first clue that her in-laws were in London to stay.

Lucius and Narcissa departed soon after to Clarence House, their usual London residence, leaving Hermione and Blaise with Theo, Draco, and Daphne, who arrived a bit later, and Harry and Pansy, who must have spotted the involuntary bat signal that meant Draco was somehow in need.

"I _loathe_ that they're dragging Astoria into this," said Daphne sourly, tossing an olive into her mouth with sudden ferocity as she scrolled past another article speculating why Hermione had not make herself useful and put a bouncing baby sovereign-to-be in the cradle. (The presumption seemed to be that her aggressively American ways had pushed Draco into the arms of a better, more fertile former flame, i.e. Astoria). "What's next," Daphne announced loudly, "are Draco and I having an affair, too? Is he having one with Pansy?"

"Not possible, according to the Dursleys," Pansy replied drily. "Haven't you heard? I've got the sex appeal of a block of ice."

"Don't listen to them," Harry erupted with a bark of impatience. He seemed perpetually on the edge of rage in recent times with anything that wasn't his children, probably because someone in his household was leaking his private information and his nearest biological family were busy making an industry of insulting his wife. Regardless, any little prod seemed to have him up in arms, though thankfully not at anyone in the room. Really more of a void-shouting situation.

"Henry, for heaven's sake," said Pansy, though she seemed less than her usual self when it came to the admonishment. Possibly she was enraged as well, though it was always more difficult to tell with her.

"While I'm sure Harry would happily debase you on national television just to prove a point," Theo said blithely to Pansy, to which Harry shrugged that he would probably consider it and was therefore heartily smacked by Pansy, "I think the point is we ought to do something drastically more stupid."

"Such as?" asked Blaise, who perked up at the promise of someone else's idiocy.

"Well, if I may," said Theo, dropping alarmingly to one knee before his wife, who had at that very moment set down a knife full of tapenade. "Greengrass, I have a proposal to make."

"What?" said Daphne around the presence of a cracker.

"This is odd," remarked Hermione to Draco.

"Yes, well, he can't be stopped," was Draco's fond reply.

"Greengrass," Theo said, "I'd like to propose a political career."

"Now?" said Daphne, once she'd managed to swallow. "I'm eating."

"Is he getting an appointment to the House of Lords?" asked Hermione in Draco's ear.

"'Fraid not," said Draco, as Hermione's brow furrowed in concert with everyone else's in the room.

"You want a seat in Parliament?" asked Pansy, frowning. "What on earth for?"

"Just an all-consuming madness, really," said Theo.

Daphne, who had paused with a second cracker halfway to her mouth, frowned into nothing. "You sure you'd want to do all that?"

The "all that" in question seemed to be in reference to Draco, Hermione, Harry, and Pansy, who were all public figures. Daphne had a very niche fame, and Theo was both a peer of the realm and certainly out and about often enough to be remarked upon by journalists, but he wasn't technically spottable in a crowd. An election would be quite another thing altogether, and that was not even to speak of actually being an MP.

"Not at all sure, no," said Theo definitively. "Hence the proposal, my sweets. Can't do it without you," he said, Pepe le Pew-ing her knuckles whilst she contemplated this, chewing.

From Blaise, delighted: "Conservative? Liberal? Surely not Labour."

"Oh, I think you know," Theo said, at which point Daphne finally stopped eating.

"You've finally decided how you'll murder your father, I take it?" she said with a swallow, looking either very impressed or very concerned, or both. "It's a clever plan, Nott, but very expensive."

"It's not as if the money's being put to better use," said Theo.

"You knew about this," Hermione murmured to Draco, observing that both he and Harry were conspicuously quiet. "Was it possibly your idea? He can't have thought it up alone."

"Theo's rather an adult man," Draco replied. "And a mind like his is wasted on the fripperies of the peerage."

The word "fripperies" dragged Hermione back to quite another conversation. "Did you discuss this with Snape?"

Draco cast a look at her that wasn't entirely guiltless. "I know you don't like him," he said. "But I have to have advisors who understand that my grandfather's methods will not save us."

"What does that mean?" Hermione asked, frowning, and Draco drew her aside to speak privately with her in the corridor.

"I'm certain now," he said blandly. "My grandfather supports Umbridge."

"_What_—"

"He thinks it's the only way to preserve the monarchy. He thinks the country will require stability and that they will look to him." Draco's expression was grim. "As far as I can tell he opposes Brexit itself, but not Umbridge. I told him the separation was virtually nonexistent but he denied having anything to do with it. I only know differently because I trust Theo, I trust my father's insight. And I know my grandfather's patterns."

"Meaning what?" Hermione asked, unsure she wanted the answer.

"I think," Draco said, glancing down at her. "I think he is willing to let you take the fall for him," he said, confirming Blaise suspicions. "And I need you to know that I will not allow it."

"Me?" Hermione echoed, surprised by his emphatic conclusion. "Draco, you have nothing to prove to me—"

"I won't ever sell you out like this." It seemed Draco's mood, whatever it was built on, was carved in stone. "I would never allow you to become a front for my own agenda, I promise you."

Hermione blinked, feeling she was missing something crucial. "Draco, I know this—"

"He did this, he's _done_ this," Draco muttered in agitation. "Rita Skeeter's right—"

"Draco," Hermione said, eyes widening. One did not make lunatic claims like that in jest.

"—the Palace exists to preserve his image. It got out somehow that he was throwing his country under the bus, and so he—"

"Draco," Hermione cut in, "I leaked it myself, my opinions on Bagman and Umbridge. It really wasn't some sort of… of sinister plot, or—"

"I know," he said, waving a hand. "It's not just that."

"Then what?" she asked, taking his hand. He seemed rudderless at the moment, anchored only by her proximity. Narcissa's words—_make sure he is advised by you and you alone_—rung briefly in her head.

"Well." Draco exhaled. "This… it's not related to Theo's decision. None of this is, really. Only that I felt he could do it, and I encouraged him to propose the idea to Daphne. I'd no idea he'd _literally_ propose," he added with a sigh.

"I don't think any of us can pretend to follow Theo's train of thought," Hermione assured him.

"But…" And here Draco's concentration went rapidly elsewhere. "I think," he said slowly, "talking with Harry, that my grandfather had to have had some part in that student's death at Eton. He must have done, and whether he did anything himself or he allowed others to do it for him, I don't think I can ignore the way it must come back to him."

Hermione stared at him, wondering where this babbling was going.

"My father was already involved with Bellatrix at the time." Draco's grey gaze fell heavily to hers. "Sirius was a risk, especially if—" He broke off. "Especially if he and Lupin were together, which I'd be an idiot not to believe they were."

The shift in narrative from a bunch of school-aged boys getting into trouble to grown aristocrats interfering on the basis of personal prejudice felt too absurd to be real. "You think your grandfather intended for Lupin to take the fall?" Hermione asked.

"I don't know. But he certainly didn't want the Black name circulating the papers after they were already tied to my father," Draco exhaled, "and if that's how far he was willing to go—"

He stopped, and Hermione felt sickened by the way that sentence seemingly wouldn't end. When Narcissa had first mentioned off-handedly what Snape had done for Lucius, Hermione had dismissed it as a joke, or at least rejected the belief that anything Snape knew or did would ever extend to anything criminal. But once her mind was permitted to wander, she couldn't seem to stop. If the Pettigrew death was covered up, then what about Harry's parents' deaths? If Narcissa was locked away, what would they have done to Lily Potter? No, forget Lily Potter, who by all accounts wasn't especially political. If _Hermione_ wasn't allowed to speak about politics, what use would she have? She could see it now, the way Theo and Daphne had been wary of Snape's intentions, but what angered her was something far more sinister because it was true for everyone, not just her.

How was she supposed to fight the tide of political collusion, like the conversations Abraxas had allegedly asked Nott Sr to orchestrate, that were perpetuated by the British upper class? No wonder Theo had decided to run for office. There was something powerless about this, about being trapped within an invisible cage of expectation. If this was what Abraxas was willing to do anything to protect, what exactly was he protecting?

Wealth. Power. Status. The usual.

It flooded Hermione with an ire she couldn't ignore—nor did she want to. It was one thing to fear for her own privacy, but Draco had already made it clear that whatever protection he hadn't ensured for her before, he would now. He was ready to come for Rita Skeeter that moment, babbling about lawsuits until Hermione hastily talked him out of it, assuring him that this was a far bigger issue than whatever the tabloids would or wouldn't exploit.

This was institutional, systemic. This was class solidarity over the interests of the British population at large, and a conglomerate of influence that used the media as its tool. This was the behemoth of the monarchy resting atop the adoration of its people, and perhaps that was why Hermione did what she did next.

A snap of a camera flash drew her out of her typical void of decompression into the throngs of admirers who'd come out to greet her for her engagement that day. It was nothing, really, just another outing in a pretty dress to look at historical things, but as Hermione stepped out, blinded temporarily, she felt suddenly overcome with understanding. A serenity, tranquil and calm.

"Hello," she said, turning to a young woman whose phone was held up to record her from a few feet away. "That's a very lovely coat. I wonder, are you planning to vote in next week's general election?"

"Yes ma'am," came the girl's breathless voice, her hands shaking. Hermione had seen these videos previously, the silly clips of nothing that sometimes went on to make headlines like "listen to Princess Hermione compliment a little girl's shoes" or "Hermione Granger still says 'milk' like an American."

"Well I hope you consider your choice very carefully," said Hermione. "I know it sometimes seems as if politics are very corrupt, or that the people responsible for handling elections will take shortcuts if they can get them. I know there are many people who abstain from voting, and I understand that it's a nuisance, and sometimes it seems as if there's no point."

Had this been a prepared speech, she might have opted to take a deep breath. But as it wasn't, she didn't.

"But this is precisely what they want, isn't it? For none of you to care about politics at all, and most of all, for none of you to care about each other. And I understand that perhaps you don't want my opinion, because there are any number of people in this country who do not believe I deserve a voice, and maybe I don't. But should that be because I was born a nobody and therefore I should die one? All those people who hate me," Hermione went on, "some of them have reason to. Some of them, however, will tear me down the same way they tear you down, because they will never see me as anything but a threat, and shamefully they will never see you, the young and fearless and idealistic, for the gift that you are. Because you are a threat to an old way of life, and therefore you have the power to change things. You have the power to protect each other over the choice to see only yourselves. You have the power to disrupt things, and that's the worst thing that could possibly happen to those people who will tell you that you don't matter, because their lives are perfectly fine the way they are. But you have your own mind," Hermione said to the girl, who was rapt, and potentially not even breathing. "Don't listen to my opinion if it doesn't suit yours, that's fine. I'm not here to govern you or tell you what to do with this very great power of yours. But I will tell you that I believe there are ways to lead with compassion, and that doing so will take us all further than leading from a place of ignorance or fear. You do not have to settle for the wisdom of previous generations, or to assume that what's always been done is what's best. There is courage in empathy. It is brave to have faith in goodness, and I hope you will let that, rather than fear, drive you. And I urge you not to let the voices of Dolores Umbridge or Ludo Bagman take over the sound of the voice—_your _voice—that tells you what is true, and what is good, and what is right."

It seemed like as good a time as any to stop, so Hermione stepped away and into the car that was waiting for her, closing her eyes once she disappeared inside it. "Back to the offices," she said, and felt a bit of familiar nausea settling in, halfway between the vestiges of nothing and a full blown headache.

Narcissa, oddly, was waiting for her when she stepped out of the car. Not that the appearance of Narcissa was technically odd, considering that she and Lucius decided to stay in London until the entire royal family left for Sandringham. In Hermione's experience, though, Narcissa was more of an indoor cat, preferring to lounge in isolation.

"More of a crowd than usual," Narcissa commented, flicking a look in the direction of camera flashes from afar. The photographers weren't visible from the private drive of Kensington Palace apartments, but their presence was known and understood by both women.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Hermione said.

"Oh, I doubt that," Narcissa said with a laugh, handing her the phone with a tweet pulled up. It couldn't have been the girl who'd been recording, but obviously someone with a considerable following had reposted the video, and within minutes it had gone viral.

_HERMIONE GRANGER JUST SNAPPED!_

Hermione exhaled, handing the phone back to Narcissa without a word.

There was no point worrying about it yet, she reasoned, relieved that the sound in the video hadn't been on. She hated the sound of her voice, and given the spontaneity of her most recent disaster, she'd already forgotten what she said and could only assume it was idiotic. Presumably Draco knew about it by now, so if he had something to say about it, he'd bring it to her directly. She should probably just go to bed.

"You look a bit ill," remarked Narcissa, peering at her. "Though that's not much of a surprise."

"Just a headache or something. Maybe a migraine."

"Maybe," Narcissa agreed, expressionless.

"I suppose I don't feel entirely up for finishing the workday," Hermione admitted, adding with a sigh, "If they're going to call me workshy no matter what I do, I may as well let them win the day."

She turned to take the stairs, heading to her bedroom, when Narcissa called after her.

"It was hardly noticeable at first," Narcissa remarked idly. "A headache, a bit of nausea. It was all very easy to ignore, at least in the beginning. Small and seemingly coincidental," she added, "until it suddenly wasn't anymore."

Hermione paused, turning slowly to face her mother-in-law.

"What was?" she asked, her voice unexpectedly quite small.

Narcissa's expression in return was as unhelpful as it was smug.

"You tell me," Narcissa replied, returning to some other business in the drawing room.

* * *

I don't know how to feel. About this video, or about anything. It's like I've gone completely numb in the last ten minutes and now all I can think to do is lie down. Shouldn't I be happy, or proud, or something? Everyone saw it, saw me, saying the things I've been meaning to say—that I've been forking _desperate_ to. Nobody can deny it now, so shouldn't I feel pleased? Or relieved?

Truthfully all I can think is how they'll bury me, or try to. I guess I'll just have to find a way to prove that I won't be kept down.

And as for the other thing…

Well, that just can't be real, can it?

* * *

_**a/n:**_ _The webcomic for __**Clara and the Devil**_ _is now complete! Find links on any of my social media. Thanks for reading!_


	12. Better a Little With Righteousness

_**a/n:**_ _Two of this chapter's scenes are edited versions of scenes first appearing in Chapter 152 of Amortentia, __**The New Royal's Guide to Bearing Princes**__. (I've made some changes, obviously, in retconning this sequel to catch up with that one-shot's events, but it… sort of holds up.) As an aside, I was surprised and darkly impressed to find that in December 2019 I had mentioned the existence of a global pandemic, though I've decided this fictional universe will not include that particular reality. Anyway, carry on but gird your loins—we get a bit heavy._

* * *

**Chapter 12: Better a Little With Righteousness **

_**DAILY PROPHET**__, The UK's Top Source for Breaking News  
__** ProphetOnline**_

_SHOCKING NEWS as the Royal Family prepares to spend Christmas in mourning! Exclusive report on how Prince Draco is handling this devastating loss._

_8:25 PM - 24 Dec 2019  
__**841**_ _Retweets __**900K **__Likes_

_** Big_D_**__  
Replying to __** ProphetOnline**_

_RIP to the last true Princess._

_8:29 PM - 24 Dec 2019  
__**560**_ _Retweets __**23K **__Likes_

_** gwwheezes**__  
Replying to __** Big_D_ **__and __** ProphetOnline**_

_wtf are you on about_

_8:36 PM - 24 Dec 2019  
__**1**_ _Retweet __**17 **__Likes_

_** ProphetOnline**__  
Replying to __** ProphetOnline**_

_We apologize sincerely for this tweet, as it appears there has been some grave misinformation. Please watch this account for up to the minute details as we continue reporting on #RoyalWatch at Sandringham._

_8:51 PM - 24 Dec 2019  
__**1K**_ _Retweets __**43K **__Likes_

It's reasonable to expect that what I did when I broke royal protocol to speak to that young woman in the crowd would ultimately have consequences I hadn't foreseen at the time. Still, how could I have ever guessed that a month that began with something as sensationally contentious as my "flouting" of the rules and subsequent shaming of myself, my family, and my marriage would end with this sort of outcome? The sequence is thoroughly unimaginable, and yet.

Put mildly, it seems that once again, what began with me opening my forking mouth has taken a turn for the thoroughly unexpected.

* * *

_December 11, 2019  
Kensington Palace, London, England_

"You didn't have to go this far," Hermione said tightly, throwing down the rare print article and shoving it out of sight from where she sat, phone clutched in her hand, at her desk.

_No one is arguing that such an outburst by the Princess of Wales is highly unorthodox_, had been Rita Skeeter's public take on the matter, appearing in her old haunt the _Daily Prophet_ as a featured author rather than the usual Royal correspondent. That particular demonry was now left to a weaselly little snot called Zacharias Smith, who'd been among the first to gleefully cast stones after Hermione's spontaneous foray into politics. (Padma had been emphatic that someone with Smith's academic reputation accounted for a very flimsy glass house—but, seeing as the _Prophet_ had never been known to take the high road, this was proverbially very straightforward.) _I would imagine_ _that we should expect not to see Her Royal Highness in public anytime soon_, Rita's article had continued. _I daresay the Firm is hoping for any reason to cast her aside entirely, in which case we should all watch her health quite closely for any signs of stray ill will._

"What are you even implying?" Hermione demanded, nauseated once again by either the subject of conversation or by something entirely else, which she did not wish to consider at this moment. "Are you honestly trying to suggest I'd be poisoned?"

"If the shoe fits," hummed Rita, "though I can't say the English have ever been as enamored with poison as the French, or the Italians. Perhaps instead a bit of imperial tampering—orchestrated famine with a touch of bubonic plague?" she suggested, and though it sounded very much like a joke, the whole thing was becoming increasingly unfunny.

"Does it never occur to you," Hermione said tightly, "that perhaps you've been steeped in tabloid fodder for so long that you're no longer capable of rational thought, much less journalistic integrity?"

"Much as I prefer to leave the moral high road to you," mused Rita, "in this particular case I think I've earned it. In fact, I would argue that you now owe me a great deal, Your Highness."

The lengths that Rita would go to stoke the fires of her own delusion were positively absurd. "How on _earth_ are you possibly making that argument?"

"Well, my dear, now they _can't_ kill you, no matter how much they obviously wish to," Rita chuckled. "It'd be much too conspicuous. Better yet, they won't even be able to hide you," she added, a sound on the other end as if she were tapping a pen against her garishly pursed mouth. "They'll be forced to trot you out in festive-wear just to prove you're still alive, and won't that be darling? You're welcome," Rita concluded, as if this were a very cute thing she'd done. "I hope you've planned a sensible hat for the occasion."

"My life was never threatened," Hermione hissed into the phone, doubting Rita had any leg to stand on with regard to sense, millinery or otherwise. "And it certainly doesn't help that you're making it into yet another royal family squabble. Or do I misunderstand your devotion to patriotism?" she posed with dripping sarcasm, recalling Rita's firm belief that in fact, of the two of them, it was somehow Rita who cared more about the fate of Great Britain. _Oh, I see, you think loving this country's government is the same as loving this country. How quaint._

"Well, we'll see tomorrow, won't we, whether it's 'yet another royal family squabble' or not?" Rita replied primly, referencing the general election that would take place the following day in Parliament. "You told me yourself, dear, that nobody listens when you have an opinion about politics," Rita added, and Hermione grimaced, recalling yet another Skeeterism: _It isn't about what I think, is it? All that matters is what other people will believe._

"I—" Hermione stopped, unsure where to place her prickling sensation of fury. "If you're trying to tell me that you turned my speech into another sensationalized royal drama just so people would be forced to pay attention to my politics, I obviously don't believe you," she concluded with 67% more uncertainty than she voiced.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Your Highness," Rita replied snidely, and promptly hung up the phone.

Hermione sat with her feelings of disgruntlement and stared, listless, around her office, wondering whether it might be somehow more comforting to pace. It had only been a little less than a week since her speech had gone viral on social media, though it seemed much longer. She was obviously being disciplined for her outburst, though nobody would say so directly. Padma informed her that her schedule was lighter as a result of the forthcoming holidays, though Hermione had been asked by the Palace to please continue with the planning of a private, aristocratic Christmas party. A perfectly feminine thing for her to do as Draco's wife, and perhaps she might even consider wearing a bit of holiday-inspired tartan for the occasion? Unrelated to accusations of political schism within the family, of course. (_Festive-wear_, Hermione realized with a grimace, and suffered again the tremor of a half-present headache.)

So there was nothing to do. Worse, Astoria would only be with Hermione and Draco's offices until the holidays, as she was due in mid-March and Alex, quote, didn't want her to be unduly stressed as a result of her royal duties. Rather than hiring an interim stylist, Daphne had agreed to step in again and help temporarily, and Astoria had been adamant that she'd be available for remote consultation until she returned to work. Privately, though, Hermione wondered whether Astoria would return to work after the baby was born, given her husband's apparent belief that she would be happier in her own home—which, of course, he continued to regularly vacate.

Hermione didn't blame _Astoria_, of course, whatever her motivations were for taking an extended maternity leave. Given that Hermione was all but banished by the Palace, presumably until she could prove that she'd play by the rules, it wasn't as if there was much work to be done. Astoria didn't need the money, nor, indeed, the stress, and surely she did not care to be the subject of ongoing media speculation during what ought to be a happy time in her life.

On some level, though, Hermione did suspect that perhaps Astoria was doing this for her. She seemed as if she didn't want to traumatize Hermione by being visibly pregnant where Hermione was not, and for that, Hermione felt acutely guilty. Had she not reacted so poorly to Astoria's pregnancy in the first place, then perhaps Astoria would feel she could stay with her now.

Hermione's thoughts wandered again to her own uterus, from which she felt distinctly and sharply detached. Not that she had ever been aware of her uterus before, aside from its usual monthly rebellions, but now it seemed an entirely foreign being. At certain moments throughout the day her heart would suddenly race, and then she would panic, wondering whether doing so might disrupt something happening out of sight, somewhere in the body she had never truly learned to love. She could not stop recounting her thoughts of herself, the places she had so desperately wished that fat did not exist, and all the parts of her she'd spent so much of her life quietly despising. That she might now be asking it to do the unfathomable was, indeed, unfathomable. How could _this_ body, which was so profoundly inept at so many things—including but not limited to tennis, most choreography, and all forms of running—now suddenly _make_ something of its own accord? She felt absurdly conscious of her blood pressure, her water intake, the replication of her cells.

It had been a week since her period had been slated to take place, which had been five days of nothing through which she'd held her breath and subsequently failed to release it. She had learned through the process of a year's worth of trials that a period being late was not as universally promising a sign as she'd once hoped. How forking unfair was it that sore breasts and headaches and emotional whiplash were such ambiguous signs of almost anything that a woman's body cared to punish her with? Hermione swallowed hard and begged her thoughts to distribute themselves elsewhere, literally anywhere else. She couldn't consider the possibility of hope without also feeling the immediacy of despair, and she was newly saddled with what she could only call Schrodinger's conception: that it wasn't true and she would be once again disappointed, or that it _was_ true, and thus new fears would take over, statistics of dread virally beginning to populate her already compromised mind.

She directed her thoughts to the recollection of Draco's entry to their bedroom, the night after the video had gone viral. She'd been dozing, restless and half in a dream, when he sat beside her and looked down at her with that expression of _well, I think we both know what you've done, hm?_

"How bad is it?" had been the first words out of Hermione's mouth, not altogether staunchly.

"My grandfather's not particularly thrilled," Draco admitted, reaching out to touch first her hair, and then her cheek. "He's suggesting that you limit your engagements until after the new year."

"Suggesting," echoed Hermione bitterly. (Banishment.)

"As I said, he isn't happy," Draco repeated, and then paused with his fingertips on her jaw. "But I," he murmured, "am very proud."

She wasn't especially proud herself to say that she burst promptly and shockingly into tears, curling up until her head rested in his lap, thoroughly saturating his trousers with her cavernous feelings of inadequacy mixed with relief mixed with guilt, topped off with the catharsis of ejecting some other, newer emotion that she wasn't brave enough to name aloud. She sobbed until she emptied, though of what, she couldn't be sure. There was something clawing at her from inside and she cried until nothing was left but room to wonder. She unopened, and then calmed, newly tranquil in the vacancy of everything she'd so aggressively cast out.

"Did your mother say anything to you?" she whispered, and Draco, who had been stroking her hair in silence, paused the motion of his fingers.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" he said after a moment's thought, which in Hermione's mind meant that Narcissa had most definitely voiced her suspicions about Hermione's procreative state, but Draco, diplomat that he was, was offering her the chance to say it in her own words rather than his mother's.

"No," Hermione said, adding carefully, "not yet, anyway."

After their delicate not-conversation, she had decided to make an appointment for the day of the election, which was… tomorrow. She could tell that Draco understood her reluctance to say it aloud, as if doing so would jinx it, and although she could also see that he wanted more than anything to discuss it, he was obviously taking his time out of concern for her.

Tomorrow. The election. Draco could not vote, as per royal protocol, and therefore neither could Hermione. Political neutrality or something like it. But now that she'd made her theoretical vote clear to the public at large, maybe she would feel more secure in who she could be as a woman—as a mother—if she could believe that her voice had made a difference. Even if she were never allowed to speak again, wouldn't it be worth it just for this? For this _one moment_ of knowing she had been heard, and therefore she wasn't just a collection of replicating cells, but in fact a real life person of consequence?

She closed her eyes and reminded herself not to run away with her thoughts. She could feel them like bile, like poison. Surely if this were real and there _was_ a baby, then she ought not to poison it with anything, like the possibility of a world ruled by Umbridge.

"Hermione," Padma said, materializing in the doorway, iPad in hand. "Is this a good time to discuss your plans for Sandringham?"

Hermione managed a nod, waking herself from her spiral. "Yes, of course," she said, waving Padma into a chair. "As you know I'm very busy," she joked in reference to her empty office, "but I suppose I could make time."

Padma's gaze caught on the crumpled Skeeter article, though she didn't comment. Presumably she understood by now that Hermione's more self-destructive impulses couldn't be controlled so much as eased.

"How are you feeling?" Padma asked.

"Oh, fine," said Hermione brightly. "A little relieved there's nothing pressing to deal with, you know. No fires to put out or anything."

She hadn't the faintest idea why she was lying to Padma so flagrantly, though she could tell she'd been spouting a lot of untruths as of late. She lacked the energy for even Daphne or Pansy these days, finding opportunities where she could to soothe herself in private. She blamed it on the uncertainty of the times.

Tomorrow. The election.

Other things, too, like the possibility of a family… or, again, not.

"So true," said Padma, doing Hermione the marvelous favor of reviewing her schedule without having to be asked.

* * *

Hermione woke the following day with an oppressive flutter in her chest, like a heart murmur. By the time she got to bed, it had sunk like a stone.

"I risked everything," she said numbly, "and I still didn't go far enough."

The headline across social media that evening was the impending triumph of Dolores Umbridge and the Brexiteers. Brexit would go forward. Umbridge would remain PM, securely this time. This had never been a matter of Hermione not speaking up, which she realized with fierce, powerless lurch. This was simply a world that would not see justice even if she pointed to it—even if she got a hundred million likes. This was an ideological division beyond repair, and what would that mean for any conceivable future she could provide?

Devastation did not begin to cover it.

"Maybe I didn't make it clear enough," she said, heartsick. "Maybe I should have been more direct? Maybe if I'd just—"

"You were more than brave enough," Draco cut in, and she was sure she needed to stop talking about it. Part of her was certain that her tacit accusation—that if _she_ hadn't done enough, then he, certainly, had done absolutely nothing—was hurting him, and she could see it, even though that wasn't at all her intent. Of course he could do nothing! Of course, of course. She knew she needed to stop babbling, to stop fumbling for an explanation that nobody could give her. Intellectually, she knew this had always been a plausible outcome. She knew on some logical plane that the Dursleys existed—in fact they were paid to exist as loudly as they did—and therefore they voiced an opinion that other people shared. She knew this. She knew it was not Draco's fault, nor anyone's fault. She knew that even blaming Abraxas was fruitless.

But.

_But_.

"You're holding yourself to an impossible standard," Draco said, watching her expression battle with itself. "You were a brave, compassionate voice among many who weren't. I know it doesn't seem like enough, but it is enough, Hermione. You have done enough."

"But—"

"Sometimes," Draco exhaled, rising to his feet and facing their bedroom window. "Sometimes it's valuable to be this hard on yourself. Your expectations are high, have always been high, and that's what makes you brilliant. You are who you are because of how much you expect from yourself, and I love you for that, and for all of your beautiful ideals. But sometimes," he said, turning to face her, "sometimes it hurts you, it keeps you down. You hold yourself to impossible standards, and you cannot always expect to be a hero. I wish the world were otherwise, but it isn't. It is what it is, and you're only one person, Hermione. I wish you would love you the way that I do, without expectation."

He sat beside her again, exhaling.

"Must you be a hero for everyone?" he asked her. "Is it not enough that you're my hero without being the world's as well?"

She knew he was hoping that she'd bring up the outcome of her doctor's appointment, but at the moment, she didn't want to think about what that might mean, or what tomorrow would bring. She'd rested too comfortably on the hope for a better outcome before.

"The last thing I want is to be tricked into believing that all of this could be better," she said hoarsely, which, to his credit, Draco seemed to understand.

"Statistically it's not impossible," he said, taking her fingertips, and she was relieved that he didn't try to reassure her with anything she wouldn't be able to believe at the moment, like positivity or optimism or something equally unstomachable. She was still having a bit of a nausea problem, though it simply wasn't what she'd expected. Nothing was.

Umbridge blinked up at them from their Twitter feed, putridly condescending in her pink tweed, before the iPad screen went dark.

"If you want," Draco said carefully, "we can stay around here until we leave for Sandringham. Keep things a bit quiet?"

Seeing as she was already gently forbidden from saying a word, this seemed reasonable.

Then again, _also_ reasonable would be telling her husband what the doctor had said, whether she found it personally conflicting or not.

"The news," Hermione exhaled, reaching for Draco's hand. "It was good."

She hadn't realized how much the outcome of the election must have cost him until after she saw it lifted, the promise of something else now gladly filling the empty space.

"So does that mean—?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves?" she said quickly. "It's still… very early, and, you know, I'm not… I'm not quite ready to…"

"Understood." He held her face like she was a shining, precious thing, and perhaps on another, less despairing day, she might have believed that she was. "I love you," he said, and kissed her so sweetly that she was almost convinced this could be enough. That the world could dissolve in a puddle of ash and she could be blissful and carefree regardless, because she had him, because he loved her, because nothing else could matter beyond the consequence of them.

No such luck, but it was sweeter for that. "I love you," she promised him, glad that she had learned how to sit with her feelings if it meant he would sit forever by her side.

* * *

Despite Hermione's ongoing fear that saying anything aloud might jinx the possibility of things working out in her favor, she felt equally that she couldn't be around anyone who wasn't at least silently aware of what was happening. For another week she saw nothing of anyone aside from her staff, burrowing in her political malaise where no one could disturb her with their oppressive insistence that "everything will be fine" and "you did what you could," both of which were becoming increasingly meaningless statements. But then, as the year wound to a close and she and Draco prepared to go on holiday for Christmastime at Sandringham, Hermione found herself suddenly overcome with the unique boredom of isolation. The scale of preferred reaction was sensitive: her mother's excitement, telecast with delight, was far too much, but Hermione's own thoughts, bleak as they were, would no longer do.

Ultimately, once Draco pointed out that Harry and Pansy, at very least, were bound to notice that she wasn't drinking when they joined the rest of the royal family for the holiday celebrations, Hermione gave him permission to mention it discreetly. Not as an announcement but as something of a… hint?

Immediately, they had all flocked to her side at Sandringham without needing to be asked; birds of a feather.

"Well, there was going to be a storm," sniffed Pansy, stiffly allowing herself to be pulled into Harry's lap as they gathered in one of the less formal sitting rooms, waiting to be summoned to Abraxas' more formal dinner. "What were we supposed to do, risk our lives by arriving a day later?"

"Lady Seven-Names has it," Theo agreed, settling himself at Daphne's feet while Prince Lucius (the dog) remained stoically beside the hearth where Jamie had left him. "This was all a simple matter of logistics."

From Daphne, to Hermione: "And also because we care about you, of course."

From Pansy, with a grumble: "Now you've done it. That'll go straight to her head."

From Draco, with faux-indignation: "What about me? I haven't seen any of you in at least a week."

From Theo, grandly: "Yes, and now, at long last, the light of the throne shines upon us!"

From Harry, toasting him: "We were blind, but now we see." (Harry was in a better mood than he'd been since any of them had last seen him, which Draco privately accounted for as a matter of a personal nature.)

From Blaise, folding one long leg over the other from the corner of the sofa: "Ten each to Lord Potter and Associates for sass, though it'll be twenty total to Lord Nott if he can manage to start another feud rumor before day breaks upon the Yule."

Pansy, scoffing: "Please. Make it a real feud or get out of the sandbox."

Harry: "Whose side are you on?"

Pansy: "The crown's, of course. Though as father of my children, I would prefer you not embarrass either yourself or your progeny."

Harry, effusively: "Thank you, sweetheart. I love you too."

Hermione, with a roll of her eyes: "For what it's worth, you're all quite unnecessarily worried about me. I've faced banishment before, as perhaps you might recall."

Daphne, loyally aghast: "We weren't _worried_ about you!"

Theo: "Yes, she was charmingly apprehensive, which is its own delightful category."

Blaise: "True."

Daphne, expectantly: "…No points?"

Blaise, with a sage nudge of invisible spectacles up his nose: "If I gave you points for anxiety of an amicable nature, I'd be forced to eventually award the whole game to the Princess of Wales."

Pansy, with a shudder of dismay: "You shut your mouth."

Hermione, loudly: "None taken, and anyway, the point is everything's fine. Though we're glad you're all here for this, of course. You too, Neville."

From Neville, with wan amusement: "Yes, thank you, this is all very new and exciting." (Neville had joined them with relative openness as Blaise's romantic partner for the first time, though Blaise had requested this detail not be overemphasized. Blaise and Neville were, as was made aggressively clear to Hermione, still "sorting" things, and therefore "if you mention it I will be forced to take drastic points.")

Blaise: "We wouldn't have missed this. Well, correction, we _would_ have—"

Neville, assuringly: "But we didn't, and that's what's important."

Blaise: "More like what's factual, which is so close the Venn diagram is all but a circle as far as I'm concerned."

Theo, cheerily as ever: "Personally, I'm only here because I heard there was some theoretical news to be shared. Something about… what was it, Greengrass? A tapeworm? Some sort of parasitic growth?"

Daphne: "Don't be ridiculous, Nott. It's that Draco's got a saucy new jacket."

Draco, royally pleased: "It's silk jacquard and believe me, it's pure cheek."

Blaise: "It's about time someone else joined me in silks. I've been saying this for years."

Pansy, frowning with either displeasure or intense concentration: "I don't think I've ever seen Draco in something other than tails or a navy suit."

Theo: "Yes, as I recall it was nappies, kilts, then straight into navy suits."

Harry: "There was a brief period of kicky short-pants, don't forget those."

Blaise: "Not to mention the Etonian era, which to my recollection involved a sparse amount of tribal jewelry and a great deal of unnecessary stripes."

Draco, bewildered: "Are you referring to my rugby uniform? Harry wore it too, as you might recall."

Blaise: "Is that what that was? Strange."

Draco, with a sigh: "This group desperately needs new members."

Theo, teasingly: "Well, there's only a few good years left to get to work, isn't there? You'll all have to do it soon or risk extinction."

Blaise, who had forbidden Hermione from asking about Tracey and/or his fertility plans: "Yes, the little science girl with plaits says we've only got twelve left. Personally I've sworn to buy all my ceremonial hats vintage, specifically for the cause."

Daphne: "I had no idea you were such an environmentalist, Blaise."

Neville: "He was taken in by the 'how dare you' bits, I suspect."

Blaise: "You know perfectly well I prefer my outrage in excess."

The group, in unison: "Excess or death!"

Blaise: "—and here we have the source of our global pandemic, but yes. Ten points to everyone for avarice, gluttony, et cetera, well done."

Theo: "It was fun while it lasted, but I think we all know a meteor's been justly earned."

Daphne, thoughtfully: "While I do still find the whole thing mildly paralyzing—"

Theo: "What, the apocalypse? I certainly hope so. I could use the reassurance that some things still come as advertised."

Daphne: "Well, that too—I mean it really does feel imminent, doesn't it? I can't imagine having to explain a carbon footprint. Or immigration policy. Or why anyone ever got a perm, for that matter… But anyway, the point is" (and here, having realized she'd gone wildly off track:) "while I personally find the thought of procreation completely overwhelming, I'm pleased we're getting someone new to dote on, hypothetically speaking. Thank god the rest of you have volunteered to do the work—you may as well continue raising me while you're at it."

Harry: "But that's the thing, though, isn't it?" (Presumably meaning procreation, not apocalypses.) "There's so much to show them, good and bad. They're just blank pages waiting to be filled. And you can teach them to see fear or hatred or you can teach them to find beauty, to be curious. Ideally, to be smarter than you ever were."

Theo: "Ah, and thus leave the survival of the species to them? Excellent. As plans go, I find it resoundingly flawless."

Pansy, expressionless: "Really, the best thing about it is giving them everything you never had and watching them fail to notice."

Daphne, surprised and a touch skeptical: "The _best_ thing, really?"

Pansy, matter-of-factly: "My daughter will never know what it is to have a mother who demands her to be something she isn't. My son will never be made to question his worth or what he should become."

Between Hermione and Draco: an unplanned but fortuitous shared glance.

Harry, arms wound loosely around Pansy: "My children will know what it is to have invasive family dinners, to be thoroughly embarrassed by their parents at any given moment. Which is, in a way, to never have to wonder how it feels to be supported and adored."

Pansy, with a delicate shrug: "So if they take it for granted, good. That is the privilege I want for them, far more than titles or wealth: To not even wonder whether the world ought to look any different, because the one they know is only love."

From everyone: momentary silence.

Theo: "Well, you've gone and ruined the joke, you bawdy vagrants. Now how are we supposed to lament the failures of humanity?"

Daphne: "Assuming there's anything relevant to announce, that is."

Slowly, everyone's heads swiveled to Hermione, expectant. She glanced at Draco, who shrugged in a way that meant _up to you_.

Funny, she thought, how something split between eight people could still be intensely private, perfectly intimate. It was something precious and delicate and yet belonging to others beyond herself, as every piece of her life would be the moment she brought someone else into it. She supposed she had forgotten that wasn't the same as going pointlessly viral for an audience of millions.

This was life, and it was meant to be shared.

"This is what I want for them," Hermione confessed, looking around the room. "I know I've said countless times how much I'd prefer a different kind of world—"

"Countless," Pansy drily confirmed.

"—but… more than that, I want them to know what it feels like to be surrounded by everyone they love most. Hypothetically speaking, of course," she added, to which the others all exchanged a knowing, half-teasing glance of conspiracy.

Draco reached for her hand, raising it to his lips in a familiar gesture, which was both comforting and sure. Theirs was a constantly changing enterprise, every day a slightly different turn, but this was constant, certain. Each moment was a new piece of shared history for them, the building of a future still to come, but she realized abruptly that in honoring her own fears, she may have inadvertently stolen a bit of his joy.

"I'm so pleased, you know," she told him softly, leaning in to speak directly to him. "Really. I know I've been… how I've been," she exhaled, "but it's only because I'm so, so terrifyingly happy that all this is… well, happening. And I suppose I'm just afraid that if it isn't—"

"I know," he said, looking relieved to hear her say it, or come as close to saying it as she had so far. "Believe me, I know."

The look that passed between them, wordless and filled to the brim with meaning, was enough to make the room very crowded. Hermione's entire being was suddenly overtaxed with feelings, leaving her fit to burst.

"Well, anyway, let's… Let's just talk about something else now," she insisted, making a face she hoped would indicate a silly sort of apology. "Anyone else? Anything?"

Theo, of course, opened his mouth. "For what it's worth, the vast majority of younger voters opposing Umbridge suggests that—"

"No," said Pansy flatly, with which Hermione was all too relieved to agree. "Not you. Not now."

"Well, unfortunately I'm still in the business of trying to persuade my darling wife that politics is no less sensible than anything else I've done before," Theo said, nudging Daphne. "Even Fleur is of the opinion that I'm a natural fit. She said so in our Christmas card, totally unprompted."

"She did _not_," Daphne scoffed, "and anyway, it's not like I'm opposed, necessarily. I just… don't see a reason to rush ahead. Didn't you say yourself that it'll be quite a long road?" she posed to Theo, who shrugged. "You'll have to gain a following first, won't you? Which I imagine will take some time, and quite a lot of hobnobbing."

"In Nott's defense, he does have a certain cultish appeal to him," Blaise said thoughtfully. "His brand of charisma is niche, but effective."

"Well, I'm just saying," Daphne said exasperatedly, shoving aside Theo's preening, "that I'm not _not_ convinced—of course I'm on board if he wants it. I'm just encouraging him to see how things go, that's all, before he really commits to the full monty."

"A famously political instinct, Greengrass," Theo crowed approvingly, to which Daphne rolled her eyes.

"Stop," she said.

"Yes my darling, always," replied Theo, rousingly.

"Personally, I've been hard at work convincing my own wife that two is a dreadfully insufficient number of offspring," Harry said, fondly kissing Pansy's shoulder. "So it seems spousal reticence is in the water."

Hermione caught a fleeting wave of something that passed over Pansy's features, more so than the usual coy admonishment. Had Hermione not known better, she might have wondered if it were panic on Pansy's face, but that seemed so out of place that she couldn't imagine it to be true. Was Pansy so terribly opposed to having another baby? She hadn't mentioned it, though maybe Hermione had been distracted. She suspected she'd been very difficult to talk to over the past year, what with the way she'd dominated the baby conversation. Maybe Pansy, like Astoria, hadn't felt that Hermione gave her sufficient room to voice her concerns when it came to the subject of fertility or motherhood.

She started to rise to her feet, about to guiltily suggest that she and Pansy step out somewhere to discuss it in private, but then Pansy opened her mouth.

"Once again, Henry, I rather think it'd be the wrong time," she said, "particularly as my secretary is currently selling our private details to the tabloids."

"What a sneak she is," Harry said in his usual tone of affection.

"Mm," said Pansy.

"Unless you're—" Harry stopped, suddenly shifting so he could face Pansy. "You're serious?"

Pansy said nothing. Daphne and Hermione, situated conveniently across the room, swiftly made eye contact that was overrun with silent questions.

"Pansy." Harry's voice was shot once again with the brittleness it had possessed for months, and he rose to his feet, displacing her from his lap to face her like a boxer in the ring. "What are you saying?"

"I just think," Pansy said in her loftiest tone, "that it would be rather foolish for us to try for another at the moment, given that we've not yet accounted for the shortcomings in our household."

"How long have you known this?" Harry asked, then shot a look at Draco. "Did _you_ know?"

Draco, who by marriage to Hermione had been sworn to secrecy by eternal vow, opened his mouth to reply with a thoroughly unconvincing demurral.

"Henry, calm down," Pansy said robotically. Hermione, who knew Pansy to be extremely methodical in even the most unraveling crisis, couldn't fathom why she would bring this up now, when surely every conceivable instinct she had would suggest this precise reaction from Harry. "Someone's put her there, most likely Rita Skeeter, so obviously I plan to smoke her out."

"You?" Harry countered. "_You_ plan?"

"Yes," she said.

"That," he gritted out, "is _not_ your decision to make alone—"

"But contacting Remus was yours?" countered Pansy. "Remind me. Inviting him into our lives, was that a decision we made together?"

_Oh shit_, mouthed Daphne to Hermione, who was riveted, despite also being fairly certain they should all collectively leave. (There wasn't a forking chance they were going to.)

"That's different and you know it," Harry said in a low growl. "Remus was never a danger to us—"

"We know that now," Pansy coolly agreed. "But did we know it then?"

"Hang on," Theo cut in, proving himself the sort of useful that had probably been learned by intervening in Draco and Harry's arguments for the majority of his life. "Let's just… Pansy's clearly got something reasonable in mind, hasn't she?"

He looked at her like _please for the love of god say you have something reasonable in mind._

"I know she's reporting to someone," Pansy replied, shrugging. "Someone with access to multiple outlets, clearly, or I'd have noticed a trend by now. But at least so long as she's here we know who the rat is," she pointed out, which was, to the room's collective relief, close enough to a reasonable thing. "If we toss her out now, then we still won't know who's interfering with our lives, will we?"

For a moment Harry seemed like he might take this very, very badly. Potentially horribly, judging by the way he must have forced a more vitriolic response down his throat.

"Then leak something," he said in a strangled tone. "One last thing, Pansy, something big enough that you can follow the money trail, and do it now. Right now."

"Henry, don't tell me when t-"

"Pansy." Harry's voice transitioned sharply from anger to pain. "If something had happened to you, to any of you, and I hadn't known this…"

He trailed off and then stopped, staring at her.

"After _everything_," he said, and stopped again.

Hermione watched Pansy's lip shake with just a moment's evidence of heartache.

"Fix it," Harry said flatly, and then he turned and left.

The rest of the room was stunned silent, none of them able to move in the aftermath of the full conversation Harry and Pansy had expressed in a moment's glance. Hermione was particularly shocked, having always quietly believed that Harry and Pansy were invincible somehow, and resolutely perfect. Something about their family, how idyllic it was, had always seemed serene and untouchable, but now there appeared to be at least one fracture that none of them had noticed before.

How long had it existed?

"Tell your little snitch I've died," suggested a voice behind Hermione, startling her so much she jumped in her seat. She twisted around to find Narcissa there, lounging in the doorway. "The public has already believed I've been in failing health for years," Narcissa posed neutrally, "and it's a big enough headline that you won't be made to wait. Whoever receives that news will leak it themselves without question."

"Mother," said Draco, making a noise of concern.

"I," Pansy began, and cleared her throat. "I don't think that's—"

"You can't do that," Hermione agreed before actually realizing she was speaking. "That's like calling in sick and then actually _getting _sick, it's essentially a jinx—"

"Superstition is absurd," Narcissa said. "Jinxes aren't real."

She gave Hermione a pointed look and then turned and left, leaving the room to blanket itself once again in total, uncomfortable silence.

* * *

Pansy departed from the room shortly afterwards, leaving the others to dare each other to speculate about what had happened before realizing that Pansy's hold over them must have been stronger than they had previously known. None of them were absent the reflex that told them, firmly and in Pansy's voice, that to gossip about what had just happened would be unconscionable. Instead they threw around various sounds of confusion before being corralled off to dinner, where Pansy reappeared but Harry, according to her clipped tone, was feeling unwell.

Hermione wasn't able to speak with her in private for the rest of the evening, given the effort of being Abraxas' guest. She was desperately avoiding both Nott Sr and Abraxas himself, and of course Hortense and Thibaut, which meant she was doing an awful lot of hiding in general. She was also accidentally alone with Neville briefly before realizing that she knew entirely too much about his personal life (and also, "sorry about your gran" seemed to be generally Not The Thing to discuss) and thus, she was frequently darting off in the opposite direction.

It wasn't until the following afternoon that Hermione finally came across Pansy again, who was sitting on the drawing room sofa with a sleeping Jamie curled in her lap. It wasn't all that common to find Jamie sitting still, so there was something especially portrait-like about mother and daughter having a private moment together, Jamie's exuberant youth a more tranquil, sweeter version of itself. With her green eyes closed it was easier to see the evidence of her mother in her features, and Hermione eased herself into the chair across from them, smiling fondly down at the resemblance.

"So," Hermione said quietly.

Pansy looked up at her, wordless.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked.

"Of course," Pansy said.

"Right, of course." Hermione withheld a sigh, reaching out to run a finger over Jamie's silken curls. "So… why, exactly, did you…?"

"It was getting to be a burdensome secret," Pansy said, looking away.

Hermione was fairly certain that was all she was going to get out of her for the moment.

"Okay," she said, conceding to an end in conversation.

"Where's Draco?" asked Pansy. "I thought you were meant to be at tea with Abraxas."

"I was," Hermione said, grimacing as she relived the experience. Everyone at the table—specifically, Lucius and Abraxas—had been far too British to mention anything about her misdeeds, which meant that all of them were forced to collectively skirt the matter of what she'd done or for how long she would be punished. She'd assumed she would be making the annual walk to church alongside Draco, but, for the first time, was beginning to realize that Rita's predictions about the extent to which the Palace intended to hide her were not so far off base. Judging by Draco's demeanor, there was a definite chance she might still be kept from speaking with the crowds as she normally would.

Still, it was Draco who was angrier than she was, which Hermione was realizing now was something she'd failed to notice from inside the fog of her own electoral disappointment. He'd said nothing over tea until Abraxas mentioned something about his annual Christmas speech, and then Draco's hands had stiffened, tellingly, around his cup.

"So what will you say, Grandfather, about the times we're all facing?" he prompted evenly. Too evenly. It occurred to Hermione that whatever conflict he and his grandfather might have had over Umbridge, it had not concluded yet.

At that point, Lucius and Abraxas had both glanced in Hermione's direction.

"Perhaps we should discuss this later," Abraxas had said, which was Hermione's cue to finish her scone and make her excuses, expecting the usual pretense with Draco. She'd said oh heavens above is that the time (or something to that effect) and Draco, in response, kissed the inside of her wrist and said nothing.

They were about to have a row, obviously: father, son, and grandson. Though what kind of row it would be, Hermione couldn't say, nor did she expect to be part of it.

"I think Draco's angry with his grandfather," she said in response to Pansy's initial question, to which Pansy shrugged, unsurprised. She, unlike Hermione, must have been paying more attention. "I kind of wish we'd discussed it first, honestly. I suppose I haven't been very helpful to him lately," Hermione admitted regretfully. "I have the sense that he's angry about very old things in addition to very fresh ones, and maybe it'll all come out in a… less than fortunate way."

"Draco's not you," Pansy judged with a shake of her head. "Or Harry. He doesn't easily lose his temper."

"Still. I don't think any of this is easy," Hermione replied, still watching Jamie's sleeping face. She looked almost like a doll in sleep, delicate and alarmingly vulnerable as she stirred in a dream, and Hermione wondered with a pang if it would feel like this with her own child, or if maybe it would be something thunderously different. Would she feel something like this—the impressive surreality that something she had made inside her own body would one day have its own thoughts and dreams and features—or would it be some other sensation she couldn't yet imagine?

"Well," Pansy murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. "Yes, I suppose it's all a bit messy."

The sound of footsteps came from further down the corridor, alerting them to Narcissa's presence before she arrived.

"Ah," Narcissa said when she entered, "there you are," aiming for the chair beside Hermione. Before she took her seat, though, she paused for a moment to take Pansy's chin lightly in her hand. "You're looking well," she remarked at a murmur.

"As are you," Pansy replied.

Narcissa nodded, an abrupt end to a quietly sentimental moment, before taking the seat beside Hermione. She was perfectly coiffed, as always, though Hermione was fairly certain they weren't meant to go anywhere until dinner.

"Were you looking for me?" Hermione asked.

"It occurred to me I ought to have a chat with you," Narcissa confirmed. "I noticed you're being unusually skittish about your pregnancy."

Nobody had called it that aloud yet, and the effect of hearing it was instantaneous.

"Oh, I," Hermione began, and felt her cheeks flush. "I wouldn't say _skittish_, I'm just—"

"Women have had babies before," Narcissa pointed out, referencing Pansy, who hid a wry smile of agreement. "I should think it can reasonably be done."

"It's… it's not that," Hermione fumbled, "it's just—"

"I suppose you ought to know," Narcissa said, "that when I discovered I was pregnant with Draco, I tried to throw myself down a flight of stairs in Kensington Palace. I felt woefully inadequate, for what I assume are obvious reasons. Countless eyes, always judging."

"You…" Hermione blinked. "Stairs?"

"Stairs," Narcissa confirmed. "Ironic, considering what happened later, with Lucius and the pills, but… bygones, as they say," she concluded evasively.

"Oh." Hermione glanced at Pansy, who said nothing.

"It's rather not my finest moment," Narcissa went on, "but in any case, I do understand what you must be going through. I was you once, and not so long ago, if you recall. Though, I was only twenty-two at the time." She paused, pursing her lips at Hermione. "You, meanwhile, are at a perfectly acceptable age to bear children. Aren't you in your thirties now?"

"I just turned thirty," Hermione said, immediately defensive, to which Narcissa gave another long-suffering sigh.

"My dear, you misunderstand me. Youth is dreadfully overrated," she said. "No one knows anything at all until they're at least twenty-five, and even then it's highly questionable."

"Well, I'm…" Hermione faltered. "This isn't about my _age_, it's—"

"Of course it is, and of course it isn't. It's about everything, in the end, isn't it? This kingdom will only put your value on your face or your womb, no exceptions. And now you have concerns about both, I take it?"

Hermione hesitated.

"I _do_ know you, Hermione," Narcissa reminded her crisply. "I was in your place once. I can assure you now that whatever it is you are facing, you cannot do so alone. It is, perhaps, the best possible way to crumble, which is the one thing I have repeatedly mentioned you must never do."

Narcissa paused, and then, carefully, added, "I know it hasn't been the easiest year."

(Too thin. Too fat. Too old. Too chatty. Too elitist. Too outspoken. Too American. Not British enough, not royal enough, not good enough. Sometimes Hermione glanced down at her unpainted nails, long and unblemished, and failed to recognize her own hands.)

"But things will never get easier," Narcissa concluded less-than-helpfully. "You simply improve your tolerance for hardship. And you know, in every conceivable way there is to fail as a mother, I believe I have done it," she remarked, ostensibly to herself. "And still, somehow, I have the perfect son. So I think perhaps there is no such thing as the right time, is there?"

"It's not that," Hermione said, and winced. "Well okay, not _just_ that. I just… I mean, you said it, that it's been a hard year," she managed, forcing a swallow. "I still have to… there's still, you know. Something could still go wrong, or—"

"Ah, I see." Narcissa cleared her throat. "Perhaps you've wondered why Draco has no siblings?"

Hermione blinked. "Did you…?"

"I had two miscarriages, Hermione, yes," Narcissa said. "You realize they're quite common? Refusing to speak of them does no woman any favors."

"Sorry," Hermione said, barely managing a whisper, but Narcissa merely shook her head.

"Don't apologize," she said. "Not to me, and certainly not for that. Yes it was difficult. Yes I wondered if that's why Lucius lost interest in me. I asked myself if my failures made me less of a woman because of course I did, _of course_, because the entire country only believed in me as a wife and a mother, and then it turned out I was deficient at both." She exhaled it all in a rush, then looked at Hermione squarely. "But our ability to make babies is not, under any circumstances, what makes us. A baby does not make a family, and it certainly does not make a marriage. I'm proof of that—Draco is proof of that. And it was a hard lesson," she admitted, "perhaps the hardest of all, to realize that my fertility is not my womanhood. My ability to reproduce is not my worth, nor is it my only value. I am not less of a mother because my body had limitations. I am not less of a person because of anything my body could not do."

Hermione, who didn't know what to say to that, looked up at Pansy, who to her surprise had let a single tear slip down her cheek.

"Pans," Hermione gasped with concern, but Pansy shook her head.

"It's nothing like that," she forced out, glancing apologetically at Narcissa. "It's not, it's just—" She exhaled, turning her head away. "I had a terrible time after Teddy was born. Terrible. I thought…"

She trailed off and looked down at her sleeping daughter.

"I suppose if we're calling things by their names," she managed with a wretched, almost bitter tone of causticity, "then I should call it postpartum."

"I had that," Narcissa said neutrally. "It's also not uncommon."

"It _felt_ uncommon." Pansy's response was swift, harsh, like a sob. "I didn't want anyone to know there was this… disconnect." She swallowed hard. "There were days I'd just stare into nothing, feeling nothing, and if it weren't for Harry—"

She broke off.

_After everything_, Hermione heard Harry say to Pansy, and understood it now for what it was. He must have believed the difficult times were over, that they were safe now, but for Pansy, it must not have ended at all.

"I can't bear to do it again," Pansy said, confessing to fears that Hermione had never even guessed that she had. "I know it didn't last—I know it was brief in the scheme of things—I know that compared to how much I love my son it's nothing, just a speck or a blip in a lifetime, _a lifetime_ of joy, and I know, really, I know how very badly Harry wants another one, but—"

Her voice was so soft Hermione could hardly hear it. "What if it's worse the next time?" Pansy asked, which was a question to which she must have known there was no answer.

In the moments that followed there was an infinite quiet. Pansy touched Jamie's hair, watching her little lungs expand, and Hermione felt there was something to it, to the art of making room for feelings like this, even bad ones. Making room for thoughts like these meant having the space to feel better, or at least to imagine that such a feeling could be possible.

"You can't not celebrate," Narcissa said eventually, turning to Hermione. "You can't hold your breath waiting for disaster to strike. You cannot jinx this," she said, reaching out and taking Hermione's hand with such urgency that she hardly noticed it was the first time they'd touched like this, unprompted. "If something does go wrong," Narcissa told her carefully, "that isn't something you did. It's not proof of some vacancy you have, or some flaw. It's simply biology, chemistry, anatomy. But who you _are_, Hermione—that won't be made or undone by what happens to you."

Narcissa turned to Pansy. "And as for you," she said. "You don't have to do it."

Pansy said nothing.

"But," Narcissa added. "If you do, you do not have to do it alone."

Hermione exhaled, finally withdrawing the lump in her throat for the opportunity to offer something useful. "Pans, I love you," she said firmly. "I'll always be here for you, whether you want my help or not. Believe me, if I'd known that you were feeling—"

"HERMIONE!"

Daphne's voice, totally unexpected, was shrill with panic.

"Hermione, come now," Daphne said, sprinting into the room with only half her makeup done, her hair still damp. "Nott's just called me, he and Draco are already halfway out the door—"

"Oh, has the Narcissa story run, then?" asked Pansy, a mewling Jamie (who, Hermione had to agree, had been rudely awoken) tugging at her dress while she sat upright.

"Wait, so you actually went ahead with the leak?" Hermione asked, thinking she knew the sensation of surprise until Daphne growled at them in hysterical frustration.

"LISTEN TO ME," Daphne demanded, wild-eyed. "It's the King," she said, relieved to have spotted Narcissa, "and you need to come _now_."

* * *

The uproar was instant and disorienting, with everything so buried in the formality of protocol that even Hermione couldn't get a straight answer from anyone. The health of the monarch was a well-preserved secret; the world of the peerage hadn't yet recovered from old traumas caused by the crown changing hands. Hermione, who'd been instructed from the time of her marriage to travel with funeral attire on the off-chance that someone died while she was away from home, sickened to recall this information now. She could picture the black dress, eerily hung up in the back of her wardrobe by Sandringham staff, still untouched from its initial purchase. For all her wildest imaginings, that particular garment was never intended to be used.

Her immediate concern—aside from confusion, for which no one was remotely helpful—was Draco, whom Hermione was barred from accommodating when he left for the hospital with Theo. "Under these circumstances, heirs must not travel together," was what she was told, though when she protested that she obviously wasn't one—hello, American commoner, totally unsuitable, was now really the time to _forget_?—Narcissa had taken her aside.

"The baby," she explained in a low voice, as Hermione blinked, battered by the realization of exactly what she was now carrying with every step.

Their Kensington staff was summoned immediately to Sandringham by the Buckingham Palace staff, who were trained in emergency protocol. Percy, who was nearest to them for having been at his family's country home for the holiday, was the first to arrive. Hermione had been with the others waiting—infuriated—for adequate security and necessary permission to follow Draco to the hospital when there had been a shout of Blaise's name from afar.

"Ma'am," Percy said apologetically to Hermione, sounding a little winded as his son, Will, ran instantly to Blaise. "I'm terribly sorry, but we were with my family for Christmas—"

"I've got him," Blaise said, resting a hand on Will's shoulder before giving Percy a reassuring nod.

"Thank you," Percy exhaled with relief, turning back to Hermione. "I've already spoken with Snape, he'll be heading straight for the hospital shortly. Padma and Astoria are on their way here now from London—"

"Astoria?" Hermione echoed numbly. "Shouldn't she be with her husband?"

"Evidently not, but—" Percy glanced down for his breast pocket, distracted by the ringing of his mobile phone, and adjusted his glasses. "That's probably the Palace again, I've got to see what they're releasing, if anything—Will, I'll be right back," he said to his son, bending to swipe a kiss absentmindedly on his brow. "Let me just find a quiet place to work—"

"I'll take you," Blaise said quickly. "Harry's staff is this way, and I'll find somewhere to get Will settled—"

They disappeared, exchanging hushed but familiar conversation while Neville's gaze followed them in silence, locked on Blaise's hand where it rested on Will's shoulder.

"Will," Pansy said faintly. "Like the character from _A Knight's Tale_?"

Before Hermione could reply, she was finally met with sufficient security to be escorted to the hospital. No one would answer her questions, of course, but by then it hardly seemed important. She practically flew through the corridors to reach Draco, who was pacing outside the hospital room with Theo at his side.

"Draco," she exhaled in relief, checking him (absurdly) for injury. He seemed dazed, kissing her back without much awareness. "What happened?" Hermione breathed, glancing at Theo, who seemed more likely to be able to communicate. He pulled Hermione aside, rounding the corner just out of sight.

"They fought," Theo said in a low tone. "Well, they were _fighting_," he corrected himself, "and then Abraxas collapsed."

"Fighting about what?"

Theo shrugged noncommittally.

"So what happened?" Hermione pressed, breathless. Lucius notoriously had a weak heart, something she'd discovered for herself on a similar occasion that felt like many eons ago now, but for whatever reason, she'd never thought of Abraxas as being equally susceptible, even at his age. "Is it his heart?"

"They think so," Theo said, rifling his hair. "Mild by the sounds of it, but they're obviously aiming to be sure before they release any details."

"Even to family?"

"Yes."

"So he's…?"

"Alive, yes," Theo confirmed, "though for a moment there…"

He trailed off, gesturing over his shoulder to where Draco remained pacing the hallway.

"Is Lucius here?" Hermione asked. "The man, I mean."

"Yes, Cali, shockingly I did not suspect you of missing my dog." Theo sounded exasperated at first, but then dissolved to a chuckle. "Though that is actually quite funny, I needed that," he sighed, massaging his temple.

She squeezed his arm. "So? Is he here too?"

"He's with Abraxas."

"Why isn't Draco—"

"You should talk to him," Theo advised, and Hermione nodded, hurrying around the corner to find that Draco was now leaning the back of his head against the wall, contemplating something in silence.

"It all just sort of… rushed out of me," Draco said, staring straight ahead without acknowledgement of Hermione's presence, though he must have known it was her. "The election, Umbridge. Lupin and Snape, my father, my mother, everything. The people we defend and the ones we don't."

He looked at her, finally.

"I thought I would hate myself," he remarked, sounding bemused. "If he died it would be my fault—"

"No," Hermione said quickly, reaching for his hand. "No, Draco, of course not—"

"But then I thought… if I don't stand for this, what will I stand for?" he asked, toying absently with her fingers.

"Draco, we don't have to talk about this now, you're probably in shock—"

"No. I'm not." He looked at her then, and admittedly, he did seem lucid. "When does it become about _my_ conscience?" he asked her, somewhere in the middle of a conversation with himself by the time he voiced it aloud. "You were right, you know, what you said. The voice I have to listen to is my own, because whether I asked for this responsibility or not, my voice will have to be the one to speak for others."

He looked down at her hand as the whole thing came at her in a rush: the intensely dreamlike sensation of realizing that her husband had _listened to her words_, the very same ones that had not affected the outcome of the election as she'd intended. She had thought they were pointless, that her moment of urgency had all been for nothing, but in truth they had resonated so deeply with him that even now—in _this _moment, of all moments—he was becoming who he would be because of her; because of something she had said in a moment of reckless inspiration, hoping against all odds that someone would take her words as true.

"I hope he lives," Draco said in a small voice. "I pray to God that he lives, but I can't regret the choice I made to defend the world I want to make for you. For you," he said again, and she registered, belatedly, and with tears in her eyes, that he wasn't talking to her. She realized, with every sluggish ounce of certainty in her bones, what he was finally, truly saying, whether she was ready for it or not.

She was having their baby. At this very moment, she was growing the child who would bear her husband's hopes and his crown, the weight of his regrets and his dreams. She was carrying the person who might one day stand in a hospital corridor and say live, but even if you don't, you live on in what you made of me.

She pulled Draco into her arms and he answered with the clutching of her coat, a stray sob that buried itself in her hair.

Narcissa was right, Hermione thought raggedly, that a baby doesn't make a family. They had made that together a long time ago, and as she held her shaking husband in her arms, she knew one thing for certain.

However long it took to get there, they wouldn't stop until they'd made a better world.

* * *

If nothing else, let this be a lesson that if your voice only changes one person's mind, the effects of that alone might surprise you.

It might turn out to be more than enough.

* * *

_**a/n:**_ _I wanted to have a discussion about postpartum and miscarriages because they are an unavoidable reality for so many. In my personal opinion, we harm each other by allowing those experiences to be regarded with secrecy, which means they may be met with shame or guilt rather than understanding. That being said, this is a story for happy endings, so we won't be covering those topics any further. Thanks for reading!_


	13. Nobody Knows How the Shoe Fits

_**a/n: **__I mentioned this in my a/n last week, but to reiterate, I will not be addressing the COVID-19 pandemic in the alternate universe that is this fic. For many, the virus is an ongoing source of emotional, financial, and political stress and I don't wish to make light of that reality. We are now entering a virus-less 2020… happy alternate new year! (It has other flaws.)_

* * *

**Chapter 13: Nobody Knows How the Shoe Fits (Except the Person Wearing It)**

_**DAILY PROPHET  
ProphetOnline**_

_As His Majesty returns to full time Royal duties, speculation about the #RoyalFamilyFeud continues! Exclusive coverage of King Abraxas' glowing health, Hermione Granger's ongoing demands, and why Astoria Poliakoff has been banished from Kensington Palace  
_—_Plus: Royal Correspondent __** ZachariasSmithDP**_ _on how the latest news from __** MalfoyRoyal**_ _suggests more trouble ahead for Prince Draco! #BabyGate2020_

_3:21 PM - 3 Mar 2020  
__**401**_ _Retweets __**21K**_ _Likes_

Sometimes the real struggle of existence is not the acute pain of crisis, but the chronic tedium of longevity. It's strenuous, really, to wake up and remember that Ludo Bagman exists despite ample evidence that he shouldn't or that Conservation of Meaningless Gossip states that Rita Skeeter cannot be created or destroyed, only somehow converted into Zacharias Smith. Also, there is maybe still a bee shortage, or possibly now murder bees? Exhausting, really. An overworking of something, potentially muscular. At present, my calves feel unpleasantly tight.

While Draco encourages me to address this with "exercise" (a delightful hilarity, as I keep assuring him) I still find myself suffering a certain… existential fatigue. It's difficult to take anything seriously, or to believe that anything could possibly matter or be changed. Brexit's a given, and on Theo's birthday no less, which no amount of Taylor Swift documentaries can fully obscure. All in all, it's incredibly disheartening.

So what's a girl to do amidst a backdrop of impending doom? And no, that's not the pregnancy talking. Or at least I don't think it is. Though, what do I forking know anymore?

* * *

_January 3, 2020  
Sandringham House, Norfolk, England_

They would ultimately make a film of it, Hermione thought, watching King Abraxas broadcast his annual Christmas speech from his hospital bed. There was something very cinematic about it, how somber it was, and how ultimately humanizing, that a man who had spent a lifetime serving his country would now harness all his vulnerability to prove that he, like them, was faced with an uncertain future.

Abraxas had been insistent that he deliver the speech himself according to Padma, despite the lively, panicked Christmas Eve discussion among Palace courtiers that perhaps Lucius could be deputized to deliver it, or even Draco, though having the heir step in at such a time implied a somewhat contradictory message. The resulting show of resilience by Abraxas in rallying for the speech would make for what Hermione whimsically believed to be a very compelling storyline someday. The overarching plot would obviously be about a man falling out of touch with his country—in the background, set to a sweeping orchestral score, would be the Conservative posters reading "GO HOME OR FACE ARREST," beautifully juxtaposed with somber shots of a recreated Palace interior—and ultimately, a much beloved and probably knighted British actor would play the role of Abraxas looking squarely at the camera, all pretense gone as he delivered a speech that brought a conflict-ridden nation to awe-inspired silence (and undoubtedly an Oscar nod). This, the film would imply, was what it meant to be a kingdom united, and by a man who could be past, present, and future all at once.

The reality was much grimmer, in Hermione's view. Rather than any sentimental drive for patriotism or comfort, The Firm was abuzz with talk of dwindling approval ratings and how best to address Umbridge's own (very festive) Christmastime rhetoric about taking their country back. From who? From what? Unclear, unimportant. Where the Palace courtiers might have previously insisted on leveraging Hermione and Draco's popularity to fortify monarchist support, it became increasingly clear that in the context of the current political climate, this would be the wrong move. Hermione had recently proven herself too progressive to stabilize so much as a wobbly table leg, and rumors of a family feud meant that even the most blandly neutral appearance from Draco could set the country alight with apprehension.

Thus it would have to be Abraxas, the Crown Himself, and thus it was.

The stage, if you wanted to call it that, held portraits of Narcissa and Lucius as well as Draco and Hermione, reminding the world that Abraxas was a family man, a man of principle, of England, and of God. He spoke eloquently and with great, humbling dignity about his country, and Hermione, watching from outside camera view, marveled at the numbers that would ultimately tune in to hear him speak. People who had lost family members of their own this year, or who were sitting vigil themselves beside similar hospital beds, would all spare a prayer and a portion of their household income for the health and welfare of their king.

Imagine being so beloved, Hermione thought, and still so crippled by fear.

While the stress of Abraxas' health was relatively brief—the heart attack was mild, they were told, and easily managed with rest, diet changes, and medication—the explosion in tabloid journalism would be far more enduring, lasting even beyond Abraxas' return to Sandringham. By the time Hermione and Draco were back at Anmer Hall, they'd successfully forgotten that half the staffers present were handling Abraxas' proof of life while the other half were carefully dismantling the rumors of Narcissa's death, delivered courtesy of the Potters' personal snitch.

Initially this seemed a straightforward thing to dispute, until it became clear the hoax was actually a bit of a logistical nightmare. While most people were confused in a guileless way about who was actually alive or dead within the #RoyalWatch trending tag, an alarming number of Twitter conspiracy theorists had derailed the conversation altogether, expressing a veritable bouquet of nonsensical opinions that perhaps Abraxas' emergency had been manufactured in order to cover up Narcissa's murder. Percy looked as if he hadn't slept at all in the time since he'd arrived, while Padma had transitioned to finding the whole thing deliriously hilarious.

"So, here's the original tweet," Padma informed Hermione, holding up the iPad screen from where she sat cross-legged on the floor (in enormous woolen socks) beside Percy's multi-table workspace. "You'll notice it comes from an old friend of yours."

Hermione, who had accepted the tablet with every expectation to see Rita Skeeter's name emblazoned across the top of the screen as the source of Marietta Edgecombe's implantation in the Grimmauld household, blinked once before her entire philosophy readjusted itself accordingly.

"Of course it was Gilderoy Lockhart," Hermione realized with a sigh, wondering why she hadn't guessed it sooner. His tweet—the source of all the confusion—read "_BREAKING UPDATE from close personal Palace sources: Narcissa, former Princess of Wales, has died this morning. #RIP_," which somehow managed to be both surprisingly restrained and also predictably absurd. It had been instantly retweeted by Dudley and Vernon Dursley, who had since deleted their contributions, though screenshots of their efforts at trending "#TheLastTruePrincess" were still circulating the web. (More than one publication had had to address the situation for purposes of clarity, most of them choosing to title their articles something along the lines of "Debunking the latest failures of royal reporting in the age of populist social media.")

"Of course it was Gilderoy Lockhart," Padma agreed, taking the iPad back with a stifled yawn.

Naturally Hermione sought out Pansy, who had managed in the forty or so hours that Hermione had been distracted to squirrel the entire truth out of her secretary.

"I was right that Marietta was being blackmailed," Pansy summarized matter-of-factly. "To his credit, Lockhart does have quite the talent when he gets it into his head to bully someone into submission, though unfortunately I can't do much to save her. I've had to call in reinforcements."

"Like who?" Hermione said bracingly.

"My enemy's enemy," Pansy replied, handing her the phone and giving her the room.

"You're joking," were Hermione's first words to Rita Skeeter.

"I admit it's hysterical, but no, it's not a joke," Rita replied. "If you think I'm just going to sit idly by while that excuse for a man runs around claiming dead princesses and threatening women with revenge porn, you've misunderstood my entire platform."

"Which is… feminism?" Hermione guessed drily.

"No, destroying men who wrong me," Rita corrected, which did seem both more correct and fractionally understandable. "You know perfectly well that Lockhart's a fraud who deserves to slink back to whatever den of iniquity he came from."

"His den is actually very respectable," Hermione sighed, having been the one to ghostwrite his autobiography during the tender spring of her own journalistic career (up until he threw her out with his lilac-scented bathwater). "He's the only child of a family that earned most of its wealth during Britain's industrialization. And I believe his grandfather is a war hero."

"Well, no surprises there," Rita sniffed. "All it takes to be a hero these days is die."

"You make a distressing point," Hermione acknowledged, "but either way, I can't help you with this. If you want to take down Lockhart, I'm sure he's given you plenty of ammunition. Isn't #CancelGilderoyLockhart trending right now?" she asked, opening Twitter to confirm that it was.

"Oh _please_. You think a man with his means can be kept down by anything for long? My dear, if cancel culture were indeed a real thing, Gilderoy Lockhart wouldn't still have a career," Rita snorted. "The worst thing anyone can do is rob him of his narrative. You of all people should know that."

Hermione _did_ know that, unfortunately. Admittedly, there was a bit of elegance to Rita's plan, which was to release the scandal-ridden book that Gilderoy Lockhart had surely paid through the nose to remain lost to public scrutiny. But there was also, much to Hermione's chagrin, a palpable hypocrisy, too. Not that she worried much about karma—after all, if karma were real, then what reason would there be for Bagman's continued health, or Umbridge's lack of transformation into one or more pillars of salt?—but there was something very disconcerting about the prospect of inflicting on anyone the very same suffering that she had so keenly felt.

"Look," Hermione decided with an inward grumble, "after being threatened with ruin as many times as I have, I've lost my taste for ruining other people. If you really want to get your hands on the manuscript I wrote for him, I'm sure you can find a way to get it from his publisher. I'm not getting mixed up in this."

Rita gave a theatrical sigh of disappointment. "You cannot possibly still be so dreadfully altruistic. Haven't you learned anything from that family you married into by now? It's destroy or be destroyed, Your Highness."

"Goodbye, Rita," Hermione said loudly, hanging up with a roll of her eyes and returning her attention to Pansy. She wandered out of the sitting room and towards the drawing room before pausing, recognizing Harry's voice.

"—can let it out now, Pans," Harry was saying quietly. "That breath I know you've been holding for months, you can choose to let it go."

"It's not that easy, Harry." Pansy's voice in return was stiff with agony. "It's different for you, you'll never understand what it's like—"

"I know I won't, I know." He shushed her softly, and by the sounds of it, pulled her closer. "I know I can never understand how it felt for you—how it _feels_ for you. But you chose me because I push you, don't I? Because when you feel stuck, I push. And I'm pushing, Pansy, not for a baby, but for you. Because your happiness is everything to me."

There was a pause as Hermione swallowed, glancing down at the phone in her hand and wondering if she should leave it to another time.

"My whole life," Harry said, his voice muffled like he was speaking into Pansy's hair, "my whole life you could've asked to tear me apart for sport and I'd have let you. I _have_ let you, more than once, and now all I'm asking is that you believe me when I tell you it's you, only you that matters to me. If you're happy, then Pansy, fuck me up," he said, and Hermione thought she heard a little huff of a laugh from Pansy. "I couldn't care less what happens to me. You don't have to have a baby for me, you don't have to do a damn thing for me. Just be happy, let me help you be happy. That's it. That's all I ask."

"That," Harry added belatedly, "and get that secretary out of our house."

That time Pansy's laughter was thick with unshed tears, and sweet with relief. "Henry, the woman's a bloody sneak. She's long gone."

"Good—"

"And as for you." The swift, fleeting sound of a kiss. "I didn't even know I could be properly happy until you." Another kiss. "So possibly I do require some occasional reminding," Pansy sighed in her most distinctly Lady Seven-Names voice. Harry responded with something that provoked a truly indignant gasp, the gruff sound of his laughter in return suggesting things were finally as they ought to have been between them.

Ultimately, Hermione would interrupt with a loud knock before things progressed, depositing the phone in Pansy's hand and barely exiting the room before the Duke and Duchess of Grimmauld commenced with their personal brand of reconciliation.

The rest of the holiday progressed with both more and less tension than what they'd started with, the others trickling back to London while Hermione and Draco stayed behind to ensure Abraxas' continued recovery. Astoria, who had arrived with Padma while Hermione was still in the hospital, had not stayed long enough to speak with Hermione in person, only remaining for a night or two to keep Daphne company while Theo was a fixture at Draco's side. Padma and Percy, no longer necessary once Abraxas' speech had been broadcast and publicized, returned to their respective holidays shortly after (or, in Percy's case, to working remotely out of his parents' country house). Pansy and Harry left soon after, having agreed to spend a portion of their family holiday with Remus, and then Blaise and Neville, whom Hermione had not seen much of during their time there. She thought back to Neville's odd lingering glance at Will but didn't bring it up, figuring it fell under the categories of Blaise's taboos.

Daphne's presence was an ongoing relief, particularly as Hermione's combined neuroses about her pregnancy (still very surreal to consider) and the looming reality of the Brexit deal threatened to drive her to distraction. The two of them had reverted to their flatmate alter egos, Hermione climbing into bed beside Daphne and deciding there was nowhere to be until well into the afternoon, so they may as well laze around and eat pastries.

Funny, Hermione thought, that problems and circumstances could change so drastically and yet it still came so easily, so naturally. Daphne had always been the sister she'd never had, and not even marriage, a burgeoning fashion line, or a royal title had done anything to change that.

"Look at this," Daphne said, shoving her phone into Hermione's face.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, frowning at the blur of text. "Not about me, I hope."

"Not everything's about you," Daphne teased, making a face in response to Hermione's eye roll. "It's an article about Nott's keynote at that conference last month in Barcelona."

"This refers to him as an expert in public art and community development," Hermione read aloud, realizing with a jolt that it quoted Minerva. "I didn't realize he was doing consulting work as well? This says he's on the board of a city rehabilitation project in Westminster."

"He's been chattering for ages about meetings at the Mayor's office, but I really thought he was joking," Daphne said wistfully.

"Honestly, a valid thought," Hermione said, scrolling.

The article went on to discuss that in the wake of the recent general election, Theo had commissioned dozens of murals by refugees in some of London's most ethnically diverse areas, specifically in response to the ongoing anti-immigrant rhetoric. When asked about it, Theo had said, _Is the project divisive? Yes of course, but so is the reality of living in a world where half the population diametrically opposes the very existence of the other half. Art is political and public art even more so, so any effort at sustainability assumes there is something here that will, and should, outlast us. The best of Britain is not the fantasy of kings and glory or some storied, imperialist past. The best of Britain is when the people who live in this country come together to behave with decency._

The article closed with another quote from Theo, which somehow managed to be both extremely true to form and also elevated beyond it: _If you love your country and don't own its difficulties and its violence, you don't actually love your country. You're just whistling as it goes by. _

"I hadn't realized he'd taken such a political stance in his work," Hermione admitted, which seemed to have been the point of showing it to her, based on Daphne's expression in response.

"I know, right? It's not a whim," Daphne mused. "This was never a whim. It's a passion," she sighed, "and I suppose I hadn't realized what a perfect fit it would be."

"What would he have to do?" Hermione asked. "To be an MP."

"Mm, technically? Nomination papers and some paltry sum of money," Daphne said, shrugging. "Any candidate only needs ten signatures to be eligible and by the sounds of it, he's already got well over that. The actual campaigning would be a bit more, but I'm sure he'd manage it."

Hermione felt reasonably certain that Minerva would be helpful to him. Thanks to his work for her and the Transfiguration Project, Theo was a highly respected businessman who had pivoted successfully to municipal development, so from an optics perspective it was persuasive. He was a curious mix of things, educated and blue blooded while also standing openly with refugees and immigrants, unions, ethical wages, sustainable communities… in short, a perfect candidate. Not entirely a departure from the Parliamentary norm of silver spoons and privilege, but enough of one to ensure the rise of a forward-thinking generation.

"So then you support it?" Hermione asked Daphne. "Even if it means… you know, the public eye? Media nightmare? All those things you hate?"

"He supported my dreams," Daphne said loyally. "When I needed him, he put me first. He gave me everything. Now it's my turn to give him whatever he needs."

How far they'd come, Hermione thought in silence, feeling a little weepy with either nostalgia or hormones. She could still remember the sleepless nights Theo and Daphne had spent working on what would become a company now celebrating yet another consecutive season of success. Six years of marriage, six years of thriving business ventures. It was funny to even think of Theo and Daphne as childless when they clearly already _had_ a baby, several babies, in the forms of making each other's dreams come true.

"Hey," Daphne remarked to Theo later, "what do you think about maybe poaching Wood? I suspect he'd make an acutely skilled campaign manager. Very activist," she added thoughtfully. The three of them were waiting in one of the sitting rooms for Draco, who had been cloistered in a meeting with his father and grandfather yet again.

"Wood? The man's a lunatic," Theo replied without looking up from his book. "And does that mean you've come around?"

"_You're_ a lunatic," Daphne scoffed, kicking his ankle, "and no, Nott, I've not 'come around.' I've always been on your side," she informed him. "I just hadn't thought of anything worth contributing yet."

Theo looked up, half-smiling, and turned the page in his book, glancing back down again.

"Well alright, I'll give Wood a call straight away, then," he said, reaching for Daphne's glass of wine and downing its contents, earning himself another fond kick.

* * *

Abraxas' recovery was swift, meaning that within weeks the tabloids were back to speculating about whether Hermione was persona non grata or whether Draco and his grandfather were feuding or whether Narcissa may have _actually_ died and been replaced with some sort of doppelgänger (there was a surprising amount of "evidence" for that particular theory, which Hermione found both alarming and intriguing). As Brexit received royal assent and the eleven month transition period loomed, the country managed to splinter itself further, alternately blaming Hermione for destroying the monarchy (pro-Abraxas and therefore a partial win) and praising her for her destructive potential (anti-Abraxas and therefore a partial loss).

By the time the UK formally left the EU, Hermione couldn't quite believe it was real. Brexit was, much like her pregnancy, such a distant, inconceivable thing to happen that she couldn't bring herself to grasp how either thing, both previously outside the realm of possibility, could somehow be equally true.

Her pregnancy remained a secret while she waited to cross an appropriate time threshold, though speculation that she was having twins continued to perpetuate certain tabloid narratives regardless. She ignored it, keeping her appearances sparse, which only contributed to further rumors of feuds, banishments, and gestating twins. It was all very circular, almost mind-numbingly so, while she remained in suspense for some noteworthy indication that her life was changing unmistakably. She wasn't sure what would have convinced her—she wasn't especially vomit-y, and while she had her sentimental moments, it wasn't to the extent that Pansy had been through both her own pregnancies, so the main distinction was how irritatingly often Hermione needed to pee—and each time she encountered some new symptom of drastic biological effort, it felt somehow underwhelming.

Maybe when she had cravings, she thought, or when something turned her stomach, but then she couldn't compare her feelings on rice or peanut butter to the knowledge of actual, real-time incubation. Maybe when it shows, she told herself alternatively, or maybe when the baby kicks? But then again, maybe not. Maybe, maybe not. She felt different about her body, vigilant and grateful. She was pleased it was doing something she had asked it to, so she cared for it like a vehicle that she sort of half-understood from skimming the manual once or twice. She left offerings at the altar of her anatomy, hoping that all she'd neglected to do in her twenties (the exercise days she'd skipped and the junk food she'd eaten) might not suddenly catch up with her at this very crucial time of necessary health.

All in all it was both staggering and unexceptional. A baby! An heir! But also, was it still slightly possible that everyone involved had had some sort of mutual hallucination instead? She had expected to find her skin luminous with joy or her outlook tranquilly changed in response to her maternal transformation, when in fact she never transcended beyond feeling intangibly and inexpressibly uncomfortable. She developed the uniquely neurotic suspicion that she was having some kind of hysterical reaction and actually, the whole thing was just a dream.

Meanwhile, where Hermione was absent when it came to the public eye, Draco was unavoidable. He seemed to have public engagements every day, some of them filling in for his convalescing grandfather and some of them part of a manic philanthropic drive that nobody knew what to do with. Was he trying to prove there was no feud, the tabloids asked? Or was it the opposite, and he was trying to prove that he, unlike his grandfather, would not be content to escape to his country manor for months at a time (a frippery!), therefore serving as feud confirmation?

As far as Hermione could tell, Draco's intentions were neither. To her, it seemed he was performing some kind of penance, exorcising demons and working himself to exhaustion so as to prove that the provocation of argument with his grandfather was not entirely in vain.

"Someday I'll have to answer to someone," Draco said when she'd asked; an echo of what he'd said in the hospital. "Someday I'll have to defend the choices I've made, and I plan to be ready. I _have_ to be ready," he insisted, which seemed to be his version of Hermione's less-than-ideal mental gymnastics.

"Oh, without a doubt," agreed Narcissa, who had remained in Sandringham with Lucius and Abraxas after Draco and Hermione returned to London. She'd gotten into the habit of calling every now and then to be sure Hermione had not done something foolish, like fallen into another spiral about whether or not the pregnancy was a dream. "He's not entirely without his own flaws, my son, not that I'd ever dream of telling him so."

"I'm not sure how to help him," Hermione admitted, and then reconsidered it. "Well, I guess what I mean is that I'm not sure he _needs_ help, exactly?"

"Mm, it's unclear," Narcissa said, either in agreement or ambiguously disapproving, which was another thing Hermione wasn't sure what to do with. "What's Snape got his little greasy hands on now?" Narcissa asked before Hermione could clarify.

"Ummmmm, nothing?" said Hermione, though that, too was a mystery. Did anyone ever actually know what Snape was up to? Certainly not her. "He's just… trying to sort things out, I guess."

"Do you never wonder what he's up to in his dungeons all the time?" Narcissa mused. "I'm always half-expecting him to suddenly reveal a set of bat-like wings."

"I think I generally assume it's more along the bureaucratic side of nefarious deeds," Hermione said. "You know, paying people off, strategizing who best to ruin—"

"Oh, well everyone's doing that," scoffed Narcissa. "Dobby once hijacked a train."

"For… Lucius?" Hermione asked uncertainly, but Narcissa was already distracted.

"You have to wonder what sort of sinister wizardry makes all these men so loyal to each other," she said, "because it can't just be the money. _What_ money, first of all? Respectable enough as far as incomes go, but certainly nothing compared to Lucius' wealth—so what is it? What makes one man assist another man's adultery, or cover up another man's murder? Eternal mysteries," Narcissa deduced. "Anyway, I hope you've been keeping positive over there. Best to present a rational front or they'll slip pills into your morning coffee," she added with a mirthless laugh, which reminded Hermione that not every conversation with Narcissa was a diamond as far as wisdom went.

Keeping positive remained elusive, though Hermione did what she could for the sake of the baby (she feared, constantly, that any sudden emotional response—any unexpected racing of her heart or sudden jolts of panic—would startle the poor little thing out of growing all its royal toes). She tried mindfulness and immediately abandoned it, finding her mind uninhabitable. Keeping herself busy seemed to be the trick.

While Padma was a constant presence—repeatedly assuring Hermione that she wasn't going anywhere despite her substantially lightened workload—it wasn't until mid-February that Hermione saw Astoria, who went into labor late in the evening despite being nearly a month from her due date. Hermione woke to a message from Daphne and waited until Astoria was home the following day before arriving, gifts in hand, for the newest Greengrass-adjacent girl.

"I hope you don't mind that I've named her after you," Astoria said, looking exhausted but plainly happy. "Well, you and Daphne. She's Gwen Hermione Poliakoff," she explained, and Hermione frowned, turning to look questioningly at Daphne.

"Oh, come on, I've told you my first name's idiotic," Daphne said, as if this should mean something. "Remember it was that night at the Leaky when I told you about the thing… the Michael Corner thing? Anyway you _laughed_, you heartless witch—and as for you," she continued, rounding on her younger sister, "this is a very rude thing you've done. Have you been plotting it since I stole that top of yours when we were in school?"

"Yes," Astoria said in apparent earnestness. "But still, she really looks like a Gwen, doesn't she? It's very en vogue, you know, and I've truly never understood why you preferred Daphne to begin with. It's not even better."

"You're a very rude girl," said Daphne fondly.

Hermione, who was only now remembering very foggily that Daphne had once confessed her first name was actually Guinevere (and other devious and surprising things) while they were positively sauced on cheap pub tequila, very belatedly processed what Astoria had done.

"You named her after me?" she echoed, a bit tentative, and Astoria and Daphne both looked up at her with matching expressions of _yes, pay attention_.

"Of course," Astoria said in her plainest tone. "Though I'm sure at least a hundred Hermiones have already been born in the UK since you and Draco got married."

"Yes, but not like this," Hermione said, glancing down at Gwen, who was wonderfully bald and delightfully squished, possessing almost no facial features at all. "This is one I'm actually going to get to dote on. Presumably," she added, since it remained unclear whether Astoria would be returning.

"Oh, Hermione, I already told you I'd—"

"There she is!" announced Alex in a rare sighting, waltzing into the room with a broad, exceptionally handsome smile. "I thought you'd be sleeping by now, love," he said, bending to kiss Astoria's brow with what looked to be great affection.

It occurred to Hermione for the millionth time that she couldn't quite get a read on Alexander Poliakoff. He seemed to genuinely adore his wife, that much was clear, but Hermione still had the sense that she didn't like him very much, or that something about him was imperceptibly putting her off. She scoured his every interaction with Astoria, searching for evidence to support her suspicion that something was off, but again and again she came up empty. Alex was gentle, sweet, doting, both with the baby and with his wife, and everything about his mannerisms suggested someone in love—the kind of love Hermione would have imagined from Draco, and therefore a love that should have put her at ease.

She would not realize until later that it wasn't about how Alex looked at Astoria, but how Astoria looked when he was in the room. She spoke less frequently, if at all. She also camouflaged herself imperceptibly, pulling in her sharper edges as if she'd economized her own personality to accommodate the space required for his.

"She's a treasure, my wife," Alex said, walking Hermione to the door once she made her excuses about letting Astoria get some sleep. "I'd be dead in a ditch somewhere without her as it is, and now she's gone and given me the perfect little girl. She blows me away, she really does," he sighed contentedly, further offsetting Hermione's read. (What exactly could one do with that sort of remark?)

"We certainly miss her around the office," Hermione assured him, hoping he grasped her intention of praise. "There's something very soothing about knowing she's around."

"Well, it may be some time yet," said Alex. "She's a lover of fine things, so I'm sure she'll be wanting all sorts of new baby paraphernalia, plus a visit to the salon and the spa—you know how she is. Maybe once she's bought out half the shops she'll be able to concentrate on royal fittings again," he joked, and Hermione opened her mouth, about to ask if they were even talking about the same person before realizing that was a pointless thing to say.

"I'm so pleased for you. All of you," she said instead, finding that to be an acceptable substitute, and Alex rewarded her with another charming smile.

"I'm a lucky man," he said, helping her into her coat.

At least that, Hermione thought, was incontrovertibly true.

* * *

Hermione returned home to find Draco in bed, post-shower, reading something that looked to be a briefing of some sort. He was sipping tea and wearing glasses and one ankle was crossed leisurely over the other, his feet sublimely bare. He looked up and smiled when he saw her and she thought again how thrilling it was to know she belonged here—to know she belonged anywhere, but specifically here, with him—and on a whim, she sat beside his knees and leaned over, kissing the top of one of his toes.

"How was Astoria?" he asked. "I'm sorry I couldn't come with you to see her."

"The baby's very cute," Hermione said, "I think, and Astoria seems happy."

"Seems?" Draco echoed, lifting his glasses to rub his tired eyelids. Poor thing, Hermione thought with an egregious stab of tenderness.

"I can safely say she's more pleased with the baby than she was with the pregnancy," Hermione clarified, and then slipped off her shoes, slithering into the vacancy at Draco's side to rest her cheek against his shoulder. "How are you?" she asked him, directing the question upwards while closing her eyes.

"Keeping busy." His lips brushed her forehead. "Or something."

"Or something," Hermione agreed. "Want to talk about it?"

"About work?"

"More like… feelings." She lifted her chin to make a face at him. "Or is that too sentimental of me?"

He laughed. "I'll allow it. Only I don't know what else there is to say."

He grew very distracted with a seam on her shoulder, rolling it between the pads of his fingers, and she waited for his thoughts to settle.

"In the grand scope of things," Draco murmured, "I only very recently became accustomed to the idea that I've been lied to most of my life. And even then I thought it was a matter of protecting me. Like with my mother," he explained, and Hermione nodded. "I do genuinely believe that my father wanted to spare me the pain or the difficulty of knowing that my mother wasn't well, even if I still resent the lie. But lately," he exhaled, "I'm beginning to think the lies are more to protect my grandfather _from_ me, and that just feels—"

"Which lies?" Hermione asked.

"Well, he still won't admit that he simply doesn't trust you the way I do." That was mildly gutting, though Hermione reminded herself it wasn't about her just then. "And I know it's such a stupid thing, but he won't admit to the Lupin thing either, and it just makes me… Well, it makes me furious, actually." Draco sat up straighter, tensing. "I know it's absurd to make all our disagreements revolve around such a minuscule bit of history, but somehow I've built it up to mean everything."

"I wouldn't say it's minimal," Hermione demurred, though she understood what he meant; the matter of Remus Lupin and Sirius Black was, like everything that seemed to happen in the dredges of the royal family, both a matter of ancient history and current events. "It's an issue of principle, isn't it? You were willing to stake your entire relationship with Harry on the belief that your grandfather is a good person who makes ethical choices. So to learn you may have been wrong, even in one singular case, is… Well, devastating, I imagine." She twisted to look up at him, wincing a little. "I think it's actually not a very small thing at all, Draco."

He exhaled deeply, pulling her closer.

"You ought to have been a prince," he said. "You'd have made an excellent one."

"Uh, false," Hermione assured him. "I'm barely managing princess."

"Personally, I think I'd have made a wonderful consort," Draco lamented. "I admire anyone who has thoughts of their own, and doesn't have to question if perhaps they only know a thing because it was drilled into them by questionable moral authorities."

"It does seem very easy to lose perspective," Hermione said, thinking of Abraxas, and how he might have died worrying about the fall of an institution instead of embracing the one person on earth who had truly loved him most. The one person, in fact, who loved him enough to demand more from him, because Draco's admiration could not be bought so cheaply as with a golden scepter or a crown.

Hermione understood now that Draco's pain was the final act in a coming-of-age narrative, the curtain finally closing on a challenging but still idyllic youth. For Draco and for Great Britain, one man had stood for everything wonderful in the world: glory, power, unity, triumph… so what must it be like to recognize that such a man was fallible because he was, in fact, just a man? This was the disintegration of the blinders Draco had lived with out of love: his belief that love itself was a caretaker, gatekeeper, decision-maker, God and England Itself, when in fact love was one person saying humbly to another that he cared enough to ask for better.

Draco's love for his grandfather, Theo's love for his country, sometimes it was all a matter of perspective. It was occasionally a matter of loving something not for what it was, but for a heart full of knowing it could be more.

Hermione decided it was ultimately a favor when she knocked on Snape's door. Whatever his agenda was when it came to her, it seemed to be distinctly… different. There was nothing to devise or protect when it came to her, so she hoped that might persuade him to be honest.

"Your Highness," Snape said, rising to his feet when he spotted her in the doorway. "May I help you with something?"

"Sit, please," she assured him, taking the seat opposite his desk. "I thought maybe we could discuss something privately. Confidentially," she added, though that much was probably implied.

"Ma'am," he said, which seemed to be an acknowledgement, or possibly a hoity suggestion that she hurry up and go on. For purposes of getting through the conversation, she chose to believe the former.

"I understand it was a long time ago," she began, "but circumstances as they are, I do believe there's a need for clarification. In terms of your suspicions about Remus Lupin—"

"Apologies," Snape said, adjusting his glasses. "I do not entertain any suspicions about Remus Lupin."

"I… oh," she said, clearing her throat. "Well, maybe 'suspicion' is the wrong word. What I meant was, given your suggestion that I… well, that I attempt to exploit his presence in the Grimmauld household—"

"I'm afraid I must be firm," Snape said. "While I admit I had some knowledge of the leak, I never intended to suggest Lupin was responsible, or indeed exploitable. I'm afraid I did not realize you withheld any… preconceived notions about his business there," he concluded in his usual monotone.

"You—" Hermione stopped. "Wait, so then you knew? About Marietta Edgecombe?"

"I do very thorough background checks on everyone within the Prince's immediate vicinity," Snape said. "Part of my job."

"For Draco?" Hermione asked, startled. She'd never thought of her husband as… well, paranoid. In fact he was typically the opposite, and if anything openly trusting.

Snape considered his answer for a moment.

"No," he said eventually. "For someone else."

"Well, you're obviously going to have to tell me," Hermione scoffed, with perhaps a blush of teenage recalcitrance. To that, Snape gave her the first real show of amusement she'd ever gotten from him, to which she couldn't decide at first how to react.

"As you know," Snape said, "I was first employed by Buckingham Palace and then by the former Prince of Wales. But I have also been dispatched in an unofficial capacity by another party. Specifically, the Black estate," he explained, as Hermione blinked, taken aback.

"Does Draco know?" she asked, finding her loyalty to be reflexive.

"Lucius does," Snape said, and then corrected, "or, I should say, did. Though it has not been relevant in the years since his abdication."

"And why not?" Hermione demanded.

"Because Lady Druella Black is no longer of sound mind," Snape replied, still droning on robotically. "Her eldest daughter has since taken legal control of the estate, and therefore also its assets. Which," he exhaled, "I regret to say did include me once, albeit no longer. I have been released from that particular capacity."

"I—" The length of time it took for Hermione to realize that he was referring to Bellatrix Lestrange was temporarily insurmountable, due mostly to how bizarre it was. "Narcissa did say you preferred Bellatrix to her," Hermione recalled aloud, and Snape shrugged.

"Bellatrix understood what this had cost me," he said without expression. "I, in turn, understood what it had cost her. I have no real preference aside from personal sympathy."

"What it cost you?" Hermione echoed in confusion, and then remembered the information she'd unwillingly gleaned from Rita Skeeter's Death Eater book: that Harry's mother had loved Snape until his involvement in the mysterious "accident" at Eton, which Harry's Aunt Parsnip or Sarsaparilla had said was unforgivable for Lily.

Had it not been an accident after all?

"I can see it would be easiest if I simply began at the beginning," Snape said, correctly guessing her train of thought. "May I presume you know about the unfortunate death of Peter Pettigrew? The rest of the country does by now."

Hermione nodded slowly, and Snape continued, "I was, as you are probably aware, one of the less fortunate students at Eton. I am… of quite common stock," he said with a wry grimace. "Far more common than you," he added, possibly catching the blip of irony on her face. "It was my intention to make a far better life for myself than the one I might have had, if not for a certain amount of luck. A bit of favor here and there from my school teachers, which ultimately set me on an acceptable path. One that might have allowed me a good job, a decent way to earn a living for my… for the woman I thought I would marry." He cleared his throat. "Unfortunately my upbringing often spoke for itself."

"So you were paid to accuse Lupin," Hermione guessed, sickened once again for having suspected it, distantly, all this time. Guiltily recalling her previous argument with Harry, she found the space for moral outrage, adding, "But surely _he_ needed his place there just as badly as you did—"

"It was rather a double-edged sword of bribery and extortion," Snape supplied, almost as if that were funny.

She, however, found it exceedingly unamusing. "Even so," she said hotly. "To blame Lupin just because the royal family suspected he and Harry's godfather were together?"

Snape blinked, genuinely taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"Draco thinks that—"

"Ah. If I could just…" Snape frowned, a hand rising to his mouth as he considered his answer. "I did see what happened that night at Eton," he clarified for her slowly, "and it was no accident, but neither was it murder. You'll not have heard of Regulus Black, I'm sure—"

"Who?" said Hermione.

"Yes, precisely." Snape's grimace tightened. "The favorite son, and rather a troubled one, as those who knew him would attest. He had a liking for certain kinds of recreation. The kind of recreation that lowlifes like my stepfather were known to distribute, in fact. The kind of recreation that could occasionally be laced with something toxic—_more_ toxic," he emphasized drily, "and which is what ultimately killed Peter Pettigrew, though as you know, the results of his autopsy have since been destroyed."

Hermione frowned. "You're saying Pettigrew died because he took something that was laced?"

"I was studying," Snape said. "I was not well-liked among my classmates and preferred to be alone in the quiet hours without disruption. I saw Pettigrew and Regulus, and then I saw Sirius, and I saw the argument that followed. It was Lupin who disapproved, and Sirius who persuaded him not to turn Regulus in, which he didn't. Then they spotted me, so naturally I ran." He rubbed idly at his temples. "It's astounding how quickly Druella's man found me, or at least I thought so at the time. Now I know better."

Troubling. "So what happened next?"

"Well, as the upper class is wont to do, I was cornered by the Black family," Snape supplied in answer. "They were assured of Prince Lucius' marriage and felt confident I was something of an… errant piece. I was offered a comfortable job if I did as I was told, or else an accusation of guilt if I did not. Why was I, the son of drug dealers and addicts alike, up so late at night? That sort of thing. It would be my word against the ancient and noble House of Black—but of course, they didn't realize that Sirius would vouch for Lupin over his own family, or that Potter would throw his weight behind Lupin as well." Snape smiled thinly. "Nobody would have done so for me."

Hermione swallowed guiltily, as if she were somehow part of this, and she supposed she was, in some sense. This was the problem with classism. That even if she herself had not done it, she belonged to the system that enabled it. Because Draco had once chosen her, she was now indebted to a social hierarchy that meant that even before she was born, Snape had never had a chance.

"They did all that for Bellatrix?" Hermione asked quietly, and Snape shook his head.

"Narcissa," he corrected. "Bellatrix was already a lost cause to Druella, having been notorious for her dalliances and her outspokenness since she was in school, and the second sister Andromeda had already run off with a penniless nobody at eighteen. The whole thing was set to explode, the family hemorrhaging esteem and probably very soon money as well, except for one last chance. And so they pinned all their hopes on Narcissa." A pause. "Had Abraxas known that one cousin was an addict and the other was gay," Snape suggested unflinchingly, "he might not have approved the marriage at all."

Abruptly, Hermione recalled that Snape had once referred to Narcissa as "a gifted tactician," and at the time she had considered it an oddly sly remark. This explained it.

"So Rita Skeeter's book," Hermione said slowly. "Part of it is true? That Harry's mother knew you'd taken the Black family's bribe?" Again, Lily's words to her sister, according to Rita Skeeter's book, were that he had done _something unforgivable_, for which Rita had implied the murder itself. This, however, was certainly unforgivable enough for Hermione, and perhaps it had been for Lily, too. A young man with thoughts and dreams and loved ones had been buried alongside the scandalous truth about his death. To cast him aside for the sake of the peerage was more than offensive—it was cruel. Surely anyone of Lily's background, or for that matter Hermione's, would think so.

"Rita Skeeter believed the cover-up to be His Majesty's doing," Snape confirmed, "though of course her timeline has too many flaws to be worth disputing. Lucius' intention was always to marry Bellatrix, but Abraxas would never have allowed it. And as for—" He cleared his throat, apparently unwilling to speak Lily Potter's name aloud. "Yes, that is what happened."

So in some ways Draco was right to be angry with his grandfather, even if the details hadn't exactly aligned. Even if Abraxas himself had not played a part, his biases surely had. "So it wasn't about Sirius and Lupin being… together?"

"After Regulus died and Sirius was the only one left to inherit, then yes, it became about that," Snape admitted, curling a hand around his chin. "I believe Druella's exact words at the time were 'do what you want in private but don't you dare set a foot out of line in public,' hence Lupin's installment as family counsel. Regulus' death was explained away as a tragic illness, his hospital records concealed, and of course you already know what happened to Sirius."

"But why did Lupin leave?" Hermione asked tentatively. "Harry was still in school, he needed _someone_—"

"They were going to fight Sirius' title and inheritance transferring to the current Duke of Grimmauld unless Remus Lupin agreed to leave the country," Snape said, adding with a mirthless laugh, "they felt they had been more than generous allowing Lupin to retain the unseemly fortune Sirius had left him, which to them was mortifying enough. They also threatened to help the Dursleys wrangle the Potter fortune out from under Harry, had Lupin dared to put up a fight."

"But who would all that money have gone t-" Draco. Of course. He was the last of the unstained Blacks in addition to the heir to the British throne. "Oh."

"Quite so," Snape confirmed.

"So then why did Lupin come back?"

"As I said." Snape shrugged. "Druella is no longer in her right mind. The estate is no longer within her control. She no longer has the power to ruin Harry, or for that matter anyone else."

Momentarily, Hermione's heart squeezed. Pregnancy hormones, probably—or so she would tell herself later when she realized aloud, "You were the one who told Lupin it was safe to come back now, weren't you?"

Snape looked at her gravely.

"Remus Lupin loved one person wholly and quietly, as did I. He was born to nothing and wanted nothing more than his right to a decent life, as did I. He was offered the chance to harm someone greatly, as was I, but the difference is he took it to save someone else, which is more noble than anything I have done. I owed him a moment of redemption. I owed him more than that, but unfortunately there's only so much I can give," Snape said, gesturing around his office to the career he made of cleaning up a wealthy, privileged mess. "There is only so much that can be done."

Hermione glanced at her clasped hands, wondering if any of this would make Draco less angry. Probably not. It certainly hadn't made her less angry. Even if Abraxas had done none of it, wasn't it worse for knowing his hands were so clean? He could look down at them and imagine them to be innocent. He could look at his palace and believe it was earned.

What a privilege.

"Why are you so loyal to this family?" Hermione asked finally, looking up at Snape once she'd recovered from the further squishing of her chest.

"This is the closest I will ever come to having a family of my own," Snape said, seeming earnest enough despite his usual tones of listless resignation. "It is what I gave up everything to protect. To abandon it would mean a life wasted for nothing."

How masochistic, Hermione thought, to believe one bad turn was so troublingly earned.

"Who knows about this?" she asked.

"Lucius," Snape said with a shrug. "And of course former versions of Druella," he added with a dark laugh, "though I hear she's quite charming now."

"What happened to her? I mean, is she… in a facility, or…?"

"Of course not. She's at her estate, being cared for in private."

"But who on earth would support her now?" Hermione demanded, before remembering what Snape had said at the beginning of the conversation: _Bellatrix understood what this had cost me. I, in turn, understood what it had cost her._

"I see," Hermione said tightly. "Well, thank you for answering my questions."

She rose to her feet slowly, feeling dazed, and he mirrored her.

"As I've said many times, Your Royal Highness," Snape replied, acknowledging her with a bow. "It is I who serves you."

* * *

"You understand, don't you," Hermione said later to Draco, "why I have to do this? Before…" She trailed off, one hand settling over her abdomen where there was maybe-definitely a person just starting to grow, provided all of this was not a dream or the Matrix or a robot simulation.

In response, Draco had smiled at her, kissed her, lifted her chin with one hand and looked long and fiercely at her. "I do," he said.

So she went to see Bellatrix alone.

"What are you doing here?" was about as good a reaction as any, given that Bellatrix didn't have quite Narcissa's flair for being eternally dressed for company. At present, Bellatrix's black hair was peppered at the roots with white, and her skin was absent any traces of makeup. She had entered the drawing room in something of a dirt-covered smock, eyes slitting at the sight of Hermione as if she had expected her presence there to be a clever joke by the household staff.

"Were you… gardening?" Hermione asked, faintly astounded.

"It's what British women do when they reach a certain age," Bellatrix replied, and stared at her another moment or so longer. "What do you want?"

"I'm not actually sure," Hermione admitted, and then gestured to the sofa. "May I sit?"

"You don't have to ask my permission," Bellatrix scoffed, looking undeniably Narcissa-esque as she lowered herself into the opposite chair. "You've just come for a chat, then? Is that it?"

Yes and no. A chat, definitely. Though about what, Hermione wasn't entirely sure.

"What do you think of Umbridge?" she asked, on a whim.

"I don't care whether she lives or dies," Bellatrix swanned in response. "But I suppose I feel that way about most people in the world."

Splendid.

"Look," Hermione sighed, "I've recently gotten a lot of information about your family's history—" _Which_, she thought, _was cleverly not included in your nasty little tell-all, what an amusing little coincidence_, "and I guess I was just wondering—"

"Whether the monarchy will eat you alive? Yes," Bellatrix said. "You'll be one of them soon enough."

"No, I—" Hermione stopped. "Is that really what you think?"

Bellatrix gave a stupendously derisive scoff. "Obviously it is, Hermione, or I wouldn't be—"

"No, I meant… is that really what you think of your own sister?" she clarified, watching Bellatrix's expression stiffen. "That she's one of them?"

"She was always one of them." Bellatrix cast her attention sideways, somewhere that wasn't precisely her feet but still well below the side table. "She played along when my mother chose to put her hopes on the virginal daughter rather than the soiled one," Bellatrix said bluntly, before adding, "There was never any other outcome. There was never a way to be free."

"But she didn't know," Hermione said, certain of that much. "I really don't think Narcissa ever knew what your mother had done to ensure her marriage." She understood enough about Narcissa and Lucius to believe that for one of them, the story had always been a fairy tale: love at first sight, forever, through thick and horrendously thin, which was somehow both crueler and more enduring than the usual happy ending.

But it was love, and it had not been contrived.

"Of course she didn't know. Narcissa was a child; she knew absolutely nothing. She certainly didn't know what happens when you trust the wrong person or when you—" Bellatrix broke off, looking pointedly away. "The point is," Bellatrix said gruffly, "there are rules. I broke them and I was punished. Then Narcissa broke them and she was punished. You will either break them, Hermione, or they will break you. Such is life."

That cannot be the answer, Hermione thought desperately, one hand twitching towards her stomach. That just cannot be it.

"Is," she attempted, and figured to hell with it, just ask. "Is your family paying the Dursleys, too? Is that why they get featured so often in the tabloids?"

"No," Bellatrix said flatly. "There will always be people like the Dursleys. Don't you understand yet? Don't you understand any of it?"

Hermione said nothing.

"The monarchy will always be alive and well," Bellatrix continued, "because everyone on this earth wants to be better than someone, no matter the cost. Everyone wants to believe they're closer to the top than the bottom. Why else would a man like Vernon Dursley insist that the problem is some imaginary immigrant who's out to rob him of his livelihood rather than the billionaire who owns the bloody drills? The problem will never be the monsters that live under our beds, Hermione, because _we_ are already our own monsters—"

"Oh, hello," came a distinctly cheerful voice, and Hermione turned, startled, to find a shriveled, silver-haired woman leaning heavily on the arm of a nurse. "My goodness," the woman said, her mouth parting like a fish. "It's the princess!"

Oddly enough, Hermione did faintly recognize the woman who must have been Lady Druella Black, though she would not have made that connection before. They must have encountered each other only in a very formal setting, never more than a smile in greeting when she entered the room.

It also occurred to Hermione that this was why Narcissa spoke of her mother as dead, because the woman who had caused her so much pain was clearly, visibly gone. This, the person left in her place, was doddering and childlike, which seemed to Hermione an ironic outcome. She wondered if this sweet old lady would even believe half the things her previous self had done.

"Get to bed, Mama," Bellatrix said. "Have a nap before tea."

Druella turned to the nurse, frowning. "Who's that old woman? Where's my Cissa?"

"Come, Ma'am, this way," the nurse said, coaxing Druella through the corridor. It took a moment, Druella's expression cloudy with consternation, before she eventually resigned herself to be led, traversing slowly, inchingly, out of the room.

Bellatrix, Hermione noticed, had not moved or even blinked in response to her mother's lack of recognition.

"Did you get the answers you wanted?" Bellatrix said coldly.

Hermione had the distinct feeling that she would never hear from Bellatrix again. Something about the moment, about how much had been revealed, was too much—insurmountable. Hermione had won something that Bellatrix would never get back, and she felt sickened by the knowledge of it.

The upper hand was not always such a victory. From now on, it would always be punching down.

"Well," Hermione said, rising to her feet with a knot in her throat. "I should go."

Bellatrix didn't move to stop her, nor to bid her farewell. Understandable, though if this was the last thing they would say to each other, it seemed… underwhelming.

So Hermione paused on her way out the door, turning over her shoulder. "It's not too late, you know," she said tentatively. "If Narcissa could forgive Lucius, she could forgive you."

Bellatrix laughed, low and mirthless. "I doubt my sister would thank me for robbing her story of its villain," she said, leaning back in the chair and closing her eyes. "I'm precisely what she needs."

Somehow, hatefully, Hermione understood that. Because Bellatrix was smarter than she was, smarter than Narcissa, wise in the way hardened women were wise. Wise the way injured women were wise, and equally full of loathing. Hermione would always be a little stupid the way lucky people were stupid, believing that good outcomes followed good choices, or that they had wonderful things in life because they were wonderful themselves. Bellatrix, who knew other realities, had owned her path and chosen, from then on, to wreck it with her own two hands, lovingly and cherishingly destructive.

Hermione had asked Bellatrix once whether she had ever really loved Lucius, and now she wished she hadn't gotten the answer. It would have been better never to know, so that she could have loathed Bellatrix in peace, safely distant and comfortably uninformed, so as to never feel a moment of her exquisite, incalculable pain.

* * *

She arrived back at the office to find Snape's door closed and Percy's open, the door swung wide while he typed maniacally away.

"I hope you weren't waiting for me," Hermione ventured in one of those too-chipper proclamations, which was a pointless thing to say aloud. The answer was yes, he had most certainly been waiting for her, but also, he would deny that until his last breath. Pointless.

"It's not a problem," Percy assured her, glancing up with a reassuring, crooked smile. "Will is with his mother for the week and the press release draft's only just been approved, so I thought I'd enjoy a bit of quiet time around here."

Oh yes, how wonderfully enjoyable. "May I see it?" Hermione asked.

"Of course." Percy pulled up an email and handed her his tablet. "All very straightforward, I'm afraid. Hardly an ounce of sentiment."

"I'm sure the Palace loved it," Hermione said wryly, swallowing a little to read the words.

_**THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF WALES ARE EXPECTING A BABY**_

_Their Royal Highnesses The Prince and Princess of Wales are very pleased to announce that The Princess of Wales is expecting their first child. _

_The King, The Duke and Duchess of Malfoy, The Duke and Duchess of Grimmauld, and members of both families are delighted with the news._

"Delighted," Hermione murmured, and Percy passed her a wan smile.

"A bit underwhelming, isn't it? Hard to find the words," he admitted. "I remember Audrey was spectacularly delighted as well—our parents were delighted, our respective siblings, delight was everywhere. Delight for miles, until I wondered if there was something wrong with me for being other things."

"Such as?" Hermione asked, looking up from the screen to meet his eye.

"Oh, terrified. Exhilarated. Awed." Percy's smile transformed itself at the memory. "I still feel that way about him. He's quite literally the most awe-inspiring thing I've ever seen. Sometimes in good ways, sometimes in monstrously bad ones. But I don't think a day has ever gone by that I don't think of my son with a mix of astonishment and utter stupefaction."

"How… refreshingly honest," Hermione admitted, handing the tablet back to him. "I think you're right, that most of the words people use are somehow too little and too much. They're all true, and they're also not quite right."

"I always found the whole thing a bit spooky," Percy said, with a face of reticence that made Hermione laugh. "It's all very human, right? Childbirth and such? But it seems distinctly supernatural. There she is one day, your very normal wife with all her usual normal features, and the next she's gone and done something absolutely _bonkers_, and it's just… astounding. Not to say it's the same thing, fatherhood and motherhood," he added quickly. "I don't imagine you consider yourself to be spooky."

"No, actually spooky's a good word for it," Hermione said thoughtfully. "I mean you're right, it is magical, but not in the Disney, fairytale sort of magic. More like I've… possibly been possessed."

"Gets spookier when you consider bloodlines and such. Genetics, instincts." Percy went wistfully dazed. "The idea that any person is a collection of all the people who came before them… Intellectually speaking, it gets quite dizzying the further down the rabbit-hole you go."

Hermione was silent a moment, rabbit-holing beside him.

"Anyway," Percy said, waking himself from his theoretical trance, "if you're all set for the release, then—"

"Do you think it's worth it?" Hermione asked him, her mind fogged up with befores: Bellatrix, Narcissa, Druella. Abraxas, Lucius. Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. Generations and the things they passed along, benedictions and curses, expectations and crowns. "The price of power," she added, clearing her stifled throat.

Percy frowned. "I can't say I know much about power, Ma'am."

"I just…" She supposed she hadn't explained it well. "I suppose I'm wondering how I'll do it. You know," she added with a half-hearted laugh, "since I've never been anyone's mother before. Certainly not to a prince or princess."

Bizarre as it seemed, she was relieved she'd chosen to have this conversation with Percy. He was much too literal to press her for some deeper, spiritual meaning, and he took her question seriously, obviously pondering the implications at length.

"Well," he ventured after a spell. "While I've never been a mother to a prince myself—"

"I'm sure you'd manage it beautifully," Hermione assured him.

He touched his right cufflink, adjusting it in bashful disagreement. "You flatter me. And I'm sure anyone would say they learn a thousand different lessons from their children every day, so my opinion may not be very helpful. Personally, though, I've learned a thousand versions of the same lesson," he said slowly. "Which I often forget, and which Will always reminds me—which is that the greatest thing we can do in this life is take care of each other."

He seemed at first like he might say more, but then he didn't. Instead he gave her a hopeful, almost reluctant glance, as if he wasn't sure if he'd helped at all or even answered the question, though Hermione supposed that he had.

"Oh, is that all there is to it?" Hermione asked jokingly.

"Yes, Ma'am, I believe so."

He seemed so genuine that she had to swallow a bit of helpless fondness.

"Well," she said, "that sounds simple enough, doesn't it? Feel free to go ahead with the post in the morning," she assured him, directing herself toward the door. "Though please know that if it were up to me and not the Palace, I'd happily replace 'delighted' with 'spooked.'"

"It'll be our secret," Percy wryly agreed, bowing his head. "Have a lovely evening, Your Highness."

"You too, Percy."

She walked past Snape's closed door in the opposite direction, noticing the light glowing beneath it, and then turned to make her way home, to the palace apartments. Seized by a moment of quiet, she stood outside, breathing in deeply to let the cool air crisp up her cheeks.

"You know, I used to really hate the cold," she said into nothing. "But your father enjoys it, and other crazy things too, like early morning runs. By the way, he'd say 'mad' things instead of 'crazy' things, and I guess you probably will too. You'll probably make fun of my accent, which is fair. Everyone else does. And don't tell anyone, but I think the cream makes more sense to spread before the jam. Also," she said, swallowing for a moment when her foolish heart began to perilously race, "I want you to know that I will probably make mistakes. I'll do my best not to, but it's inevitable, so I'm sorry for those. It will probably also hurt my heart very badly to think of anything I can't give you, even though I will be able to give you most things in life."

She raised her hand to her mouth, exhaling.

"I wish," she said softly, "that I could tell you there were no limits in life, not for you. I wish I could tell you that no matter what, you'll be free to be who you are, whoever you are, whatever that means to you. But I can't promise you that."

She cleared her throat, straightening.

"However," she said, "I promise I will take your side. I'll fight for you. I've got lots of practice and I've seen it done," she said, glancing down. "And your father will fight for you, too," she whispered. "I know he will. I know it."

"I'm glad to hear it," she heard from behind her, and rather than turn, she simply closed her eyes and felt Draco's arms come around her, enveloping her in warmth. "She's right, you know," he said. "She's the cleverest woman in the world, your mum."

"Drat," Hermione said with a laugh, "they'll call me Mum, won't they? That'll be weird."

Draco kissed her hair, chuckling. "No weirder than anything else."

"True."

They stared into nothing together, saying nothing, content to spend the moment with each other and their person who could not yet answer. This, briefly, was bliss. But then again, moments of bliss were better not prolonged, so as to retain a certain fallibility of memory. To think with dumbfounded wonder oh this, I know this feeling. I can recognize it for what it is before it goes.

"So," Hermione said eventually. "Your grandfather's definitely out of the woods, then?"

"Yes," Draco replied. "Which means we have our work cut out for us if we're going to persuade him to make some changes."

"Like what?"

"Well, mostly I'm focused on making sure you're getting approval for all of Padma's projects. I've gone through all of them," he added, "and they're all perfect for you. I'm betting once the press release goes live, my grandfather will want to take advantage of that surge in popularity. We'll make sure you get something out of it as well."

"So, business as usual?" Hermione said, turning to face him.

He nudged her chin up. "Not even a little bit," he said. "Not anymore. Not for us."

"Good." She leaned up on tiptoe, kissing him lightly before tugging him inside. "Let's get to work."

* * *

The greatest thing we can do in this life is take care of each other. Can you believe that was told to me by a man who also once told me to listen more attentively with my eyes? Goes to show that we all have hidden depths, or some of them not so hidden.

Still, it seems fairly worth recording, particularly because I've found myself in need of a mantra. The world is irreparably divided. Policy is determined—at least in part—by whether or not it is advantageous to care. Life is complex and our choices, especially when it seems we have none, have meaning. We do nothing in isolation, without consequence, without effect.

…Which is really a beautiful, stressful thing when you think about it, though I am trying really forking hard to honor the beauty above the stress. Call it hormones, but it seems to be of critical importance, because while the best thing we can do is care, it is also the hardest thing. I'm practicing it now so that someday, when I get to meet this baby, I'll have already put in my hours of training.

And though I've never taken this particular advice before, Draco always says to stretch before you run.

* * *

_**a/n:**_ _Theo's magazine quote is actually from an excellent article called "Tea, Biscuits, and Empire: The Long Con of Britishness" by Laurie Penny in Longreads. Thank you to those of you who have shared your personal stories in response to this one—I'm grateful for the chance to write something that resonates with you. Thank you for reading! _


	14. If It Doesn't Open, It's Not Your Door

**Chapter 14: If It Doesn't Open, It's Not Your Door**

_**RITA SKEETER**__, Bestselling Author of DEATH EATERS & DRACO AND HERMIONE: A ROYAL LOVE STORY  
__** RitaSkeeter**_

_Another bewildering marriage bites the dust as Petunia Dursley files for divorce! Curious what the final straw might have been… so many flaws to choose from. We love to see it! ["Good for her" Lucille Bluth gif]_

_4:25 PM - 3 May 2020  
__**1.3K**_ _Retweets __**921K **__Likes_

Given my capacity in the offices of the Prince and Princess of Wales, I do not often have the time to stop and speculate about any individual tweet. However, I have to admit that this one is rather remarkable for being the most singularly gleeful announcement of romantic uncoupling that I have ever personally encountered. Hard to tell how to feel about it, given the source; I don't often agree with Rita Skeeter, but also, I don't think anyone was rooting for this particular marriage to succeed. I may not know Vernon Dursley as a person, but given his opinion of women like the Princess or the Duchess of Grimmauld, I can't imagine his treatment of his wife shows any promise.

I suppose it's silly of me to wonder what Petunia Dursley might be feeling at this particular moment, but I can't help it. (I am uniquely positioned to know that the end of a marriage is a sad and difficult thing, just as it is occasionally good and, more often, necessary.) In my imaginings, she's of two minds: thank god she's free of his bad habits and his foul temper but also, perhaps she no longer knows where to put her knowledge of what specific brand of Easter candy he prefers or who will laugh at the inside jokes that only he and she have ever found funny. I remember the confusion, the bewilderment of trying to somehow, impossibly, move forward. I remember the asking of myself who I even was without the existence of my irreconcilable half.

Of course by now, I, unlike the erstwhile Mrs Dursley, have been single long enough to probably have an answer. Whether or not I actually have one, however, is… something of a mystery still.

* * *

_18 March 2020  
Holloway, London, England_

The first time Percy Weasley had done anything with a boy, he'd been immediately and promptly caught by his mother, which he considered a retaliatory twist of fate akin to a proper vengeful smiting. The word "caught" is of course being used quite loosely in this context, because nothing had happened, although secretly Percy had been sure that it would—"it" being also a source of confusion, because even at seventeen, he had no understanding what "it" could possibly be in that particular context. The boy in question had been a friend of his younger brothers, the twins, who was staying at their house for something distantly sports related, which therefore held no interest for Percy. Or so he'd thought, anyway, until this particular chum had stumbled upon one of his secret reading spots (not, in fact, a secret anymore) and they'd been doing nothing, really, just chatting, albeit very close together, as is the nature of things when one is seeking solace from one's brothers in a small contained space that is otherwise known as a cupboard.

Suffice it to say, Molly knew enough about the birds and the bees to suspect this particular bird of off-color behavior. "You're already such an odd little duck," she said to her son pityingly, and though nobody had explained to Percy why she seemed so disheartened or why his own heart had been racing out of his chest or why the twins' friend then decided it would be better to return home early, no explanation was necessary. Such was the way things were, and thus they would continue to be.

One didn't have to be wealthy to know what was proper in life. Bill, Percy's older brother and simultaneously the bane of his existence and the star of his internal monologue, was an excellent example as far as all things proper. Proper grades, proper popularity, properly enamored with what seemed to be a string of properly beautiful girls. Percy was already a slighter, more awkward version of Bill, so the comparison was built in, ready-made.

Later in life, Percy would learn that his handsome and sporting second brother, Charlie, led something of a more… bohemian lifestyle than the one their mother was privy to, though of course by then Percy would have cemented his sense of correctness. His attraction to women, usually bookish ones like himself? Correct. Everything else slightly less so. The trouble was the dichotomy of it all; the unnecessary polarity of everything. Most people when encountered with the seminal classic _Pride and Prejudice_ were presumed to be one of two things: a man and therefore largely uninterested, or a woman enamored with Mr Darcy. What was Percy to do, finding himself not only drawn to Lizzie Bennet's wit but also mirrored by—and attracted to—Darcy's well-intentioned and therefore lamentable fumbling?

Confounding, or would have been, only as a rule Percy typically did as he was told.

Fast-forward to Audrey, pretty and domineering Audrey, who'd shown up in Percy's dorm and informed him in no uncertain terms that he'd be handsome if only he weren't so broadly isolationist, and also, was he aware that he was a bit of a know-it-all? She'd flung her books down on his bed and said he was obviously clever because he knew every answer to all the questions the teachers asked. Which was all well and good but really, he ought to be clever enough to only _give_ the answers a third of the time. It was a ratio Audrey herself had perfected in year three but of course he wouldn't possibly be expected to understand that, because he was a man and therefore hadn't the faintest clue what it meant to have to conserve one's intelligence for purposes of social adaptation. Percy agreed this was unacceptable of him and somehow, before he knew it, she was unzipping his trousers, which he was at least clever enough to understand was a magnificent turn of events. Audrey told Percy they'd likely get married the summer after they graduated and he found himself nodding along, wholly convinced. Once she'd laid it out for him, he could see it plain as day. He could see it like it had been sitting there the whole time on his nightstand, waiting to be trotted out beside the frilly lace of Audrey's bra.

He'd feel similarly some years later when Audrey informed him that he'd never been a very good husband. The problem was his mother, his lack of backbone, his interminable hours at the office, and also, why wasn't he more like his brother Bill? And the sex. The sex! He never just _fucked_ her, not like her new trainer would (or perhaps already had; it was unclear given the way she hastily rerouted the conversation). In Percy's opinion, the bedroom issue wasn't a matter of his inability to fuck so much as it was his ambivalence to… hm, what's the word. Her?

Well, she wouldn't want to hear that, so there was no point bringing it up. And there was certainly no point explaining to their son that his mother was leaving because his father didn't fuck her as violently as she had apparently hoped he would (though privately Percy felt this assessment was potentially unfair). There were so few good ways to explain divorce to a child already, and even fewer when it came down to a matter of romantic fatigue; lethargy, really, which was admittedly half Percy's fault, and for which he would later be grateful to Audrey for putting her own foot down, since he himself would have gladly surrendered the rest of his life to subsisting under her regime like any other proper soldier. True, she might have played more fairly in terms of preserving their son's affections, but she hadn't and that was very Audrey of her, so Percy was neither resentful nor surprised. None of it was surprising. It was so thoroughly _unsurprising_ that later, Percy would marvel that Audrey had not predicted it from that very first night in his dorm. Perhaps she'd mistakenly projected that once she'd filled their starter home with decorative pillows and family heirlooms and "live, laugh, love" needlepoints, Percy would simply wake up one day and be, as she put it, a man.

After Audrey left, taking their son with her, Percy bought the townhouse just off Holloway, which looked on the outside to be fully unremarkable and, in many ways, was. It required some light renovation, which Percy decided to make a massively complex undertaking. He had never lived alone before, not in a space that was solely his own, and so he had never had a reason to discover that he had sparse, almost monastic tastes until the house.

He started by knocking down walls, opening up the floor plan and expanding the kitchen, and then he stripped the small garden of its clutter and replaced it with practical, tranquil turf. He ordered skylights to be installed from a local lantern company and purchased area rugs that were largely geometric. The "decoration" was mostly color contrast and books, and perhaps the occasional corner outfitted with simple hanging ferns.

By the time Will moved in with him, Percy had just finished with his biggest project: the construction of an attic room that was part library and part open play space, complete with a lofted reading nook.

"Granted, I don't know if you'll care for this sort of thing," Percy explained to his son, panting a bit as he made his way up the narrow steps to the loft. He'd concealed its entrance with a cheeky sort of trick staircase; a bit of delayed wish-fulfillment, since as a boy Percy had often found it necessary to hide. The room was lined with shelves, of which this particular one was false: you'd hit a latch disguised as a book and the door would open, revealing a set of steps within.

The loft's ceiling was very low, of course, as the space was designed for a child. Thus it was much too low for Percy, who was at least very tall if not masculine. "Ouch," said Percy, knocking his head into a particularly low beam, and behind him, Will stared and stared.

"What's it for?" said Will, who was still very suspicious of Percy at the time. Later in life, Will would admit to having pursued a certain childish vengeance; specifically, the cruelty of misplaced bitterness, which manifested in barbs and stones like "you're not my father" and "I hate you." Percy would assure his son that he'd always known these things were not true, which was only possible to say because it was, in fact, later in life. In fact, Percy would never confess to anyone that while such comments were ongoing, he found them to be harrowing nightmares. Hence the penitent building of a child's reading nook and a heavy reliance on the curated tranquility of evergreen fake grass.

"Well, it's for whatever you like, I suppose," Percy said. "Are you fond of books?"

"Not all books," said Will irritably.

"Well, then it's for some books," Percy replied. "Only the good ones. Or if you'd like to keep a journal, or maybe draw or something—"

"Is this a trick?" demanded Will, whose mother did have a tendency to go snooping, which was a tendency Percy's mother had also had. It occurred to Percy later in life that he should have sensed this similarity earlier on, but it had not been his business at the time to sense anything, which was part of the problem.

"No trick," Percy assured his young son. "Of course I want you to share everything with me, but it's not about what I want, is it? You're your own person," he said. "I'm sure you need space to be whatever sort of person that is." Among Percy's more savory parenting delusions was his assumption that his son might arrive at that degree of enlightenment despite the fact that he himself had not.

"What if I want to stay up here and never come down for supper?" accused Will. His tendency to be suspicious was actually very remarkable, in Percy's view. Nobody had ever been so suspicious of Percy before, so at this point it was almost impressive.

"I imagine you'd get very hungry," said Percy.

"What if I stay up here and refuse to go to school?"

"Is this assuming I've asked you to come down and you've said no?" Percy asked, and Will nodded. "Well, then I imagine that some sort of child services person would have to come by, and then there'd be a lot of paperwork."

"For me?"

"No, for me. For you there would be very little paperwork, if any."

"What would happen to me?"

"Well, potentially you could be placed in some other home with lots of other children who were mistreated by their parents. Probably not a very good home," Percy said, "although I don't like to speak ill of the system."

"But then I wouldn't get to have a secret room," Will observed to himself.

"No, likely not," Percy agreed. "And while I think the hypothetical is all well and good, I imagine you also wouldn't enjoy being a strain on government resources."

"I suppose not," said Will, looking troubled. "But are there rules, then?"

He seemed to be speaking in general terms; i.e., household rules rather than nook-specific ones.

"Yes," Percy confirmed. "You must care for your health and your home and treat them both as if they have value to you."

Will frowned. "Mummy has different rules."

"Yes, and they're very good ones for her house," Percy said. "But as we're still in the business of crafting our ecosystem, I think it likely the rules here will have to be a work in progress."

"What about your rules?"

"I have the same rules. And I will also take care of you."

"Why?"

"Because I'm your father," Percy said. "It's my job to make sure you live in a clean house with nutritious food, and also that you feel every day that you are loved."

"Why?"

"Because it's what I would want done for me if I were you. And because you have no money of your own yet."

"But I don't have to do it for you?"

"Well, you have no money."

"Not that. The other thing."

"Love, you mean?"

Will made a face, then nodded.

"Not unless you want to."

"But you have to?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm your father. I'm the reason you exist."

"How?" asked Will curiously, which was clearly a misstep by Percy.

"When a mummy and daddy feel their lives could be improved by the presence of another person, they sometimes engage in something you're probably too young to know about," said Percy, which was a sort of half-explanation that Will appeared to feel a bit cheated by. "Suffice it to say, Mum and I both agreed and now you're here and it's my job to love you."

"And if I don't love you back?" challenged Will, which Percy would later credit as the foundation for a very small hernia in his navel; noticeable and aesthetically disruptive, but not otherwise impeding to his health.

"I will still love you," said Percy. "I will always love you, no matter what you do."

"Even if I tear all the pages out of my books?"

"Yes."

"Even if I throw up all my carrots?"

"Yes."

"Even if I break all of the glasses and leave them behind for you to step on?"

"Yes. For the record I'd prefer if you didn't and I will probably be quite cross because that counts as not being respectful of your home, but yes, I will still love you."

Will considered him at length. "Okay," he said eventually. "I think I'd like to be alone now, please."

"Alright." Percy wondered if perhaps he should have made more rules, like potentially ones about not going on Reddit or becoming a bigot or something, but he figured that could wait until a later time. "I'm going to have dinner in about an hour if you'd like to join me."

"What if I don't?"

"Well, the food won't be hot anymore, and you'll have to do all your own dishes and dress your own salad and such. Probably easier if you just come down."

"Okay," said Will, "I'll think about it."

Ultimately Will did come to supper, figuring it an efficient use of his time and resources, and he did use the nook to read, although occasionally he did homework there or puzzles and such. He would later invite Blaise Zabini up there to show off the ticket stub from the football game Percy had taken him to, where it had rained and been generally awful but which for whatever reason had delighted and enchanted Will. Blaise, of course, being around Percy's height, would find the whole thing slightly uncomfortable and so eventually they'd come downstairs to the living room on the second floor, which was where the television was, and coincidentally also the comfiest sofa with the most pillows and blankets. There Will would conscript Blaise and Percy into building a fort in order to properly watch a uniquely terrible film about canine athletes before nodding off, catching the attention of his father.

"Off to bed, then," Percy said, to which Will gave a tired, only moderately disagreeable whine.

"What if I want to sleep in the nook?"

"Then sleep in the nook, no one's stopping you. But brush your teeth first."

"Will Blaise stay here?"

"Probably not."

"But it's raining." This, indeed, had been the reason Blaise came home with them anyway, as their park activities were canceled due to weather. He'd stayed first for dinner and then for the canine film. "You don't have to go out in the rain if you don't want to," Will offered to Blaise. "You can have the fort for the night if you like."

"I am uniquely suited to fort-play," said Blaise.

"Up to bed," said Percy to Will. "Shall I come with you?"

"I'm not a child," said Will, a child.

"Well, goodnight, then," said Percy. "Would you like a kiss before you go?"

"If you want," replied Will stoically.

"I do," said Percy, and rose to kiss his son. "Goodnight."

Will scampered off in the other direction, leaving Blaise and Percy alone with the fort and the athletic cinema dogs.

"You don't have to go," Percy said. "We could have a drink downstairs if you like."

"I'm actually very invested in this," said Blaise, gesturing to the film. "The acting is superb."

Percy chuckled to himself. "Well, then wait here," he said, and wandered downstairs to the kitchen, past the mess and the dishes, and over to the refrigerator. He didn't exactly keep his house stocked with alcohol but there was an open bottle of Sancerre in the fridge, which he brought back up with two glasses. "Here," he said, handing one to Blaise, who had stripped the fort of one of its impenetrable walls but remained safely within its confines.

Percy, meanwhile, settled himself where he'd been, leaning over to fill Blaise's glass. "I do appreciate this," he said. "I'm sure it's strange enough playing mentor to a malaising pre-pubescent without having to also spend time with his father."

"Young William's got ever so much less malaise lately," Blaise said. "Hardly any these days, in fact."

Although Percy would not admit it, this observation filled him with relief. "Does he seem happy to you?"

Blaise seemed to consider this, or the wine, for a very long time before speaking.

"He does," Blaise said finally. "He's told me all about his friends at school. Apparently Hortense gave him some exceptionally valuable advice about how all children are mostly just terrified in some way or another and therefore need only to be colonized."

"She's very right when she's not being incalculably wrong," Percy agreed.

"And he seems to be less… confused," Blaise said. "About whether he's wanted."

This, for Percy, was acutely painful to hear, because if he could wish one thing for his son it would be to never feel such a thing, and ironically of course (because what was life if not irony?) it was the one thing he couldn't prevent. He managed a swallow with difficulty.

"I'm pleased," he said.

They drank their respective glasses in silence as the sporting dogs won and the credits began to roll.

"I like your house," Blaise said after a bit. "Did you recently have it renovated?"

"Most of it, yes. Not that it was bad before, but I wanted a bit more light. And space."

"Understandable. It's very… airy. Charming."

Percy sipped his wine, which went straight to his head. Not that he had anywhere pressing to be, or anything at all to do besides precisely this. "Is it?"

"Well, it's all so livable," Blaise said. "The sofa that doubles as a fort. The reading nook. The way every piece of furniture looks like you could sit a cup of tea on it. The kitchen that looks into the garden." He shrugged. "Everything here feels like part of a home."

Percy took another sip, then noticed that Blaise's glass was empty. He leaned over to refill it, and his own, adding aloud, "I suppose I think of it as largely utilitarian," which was a lie, or half of one. Quietly, perhaps without even admitting it to himself, Percy had been building the particular nest he'd always felt he lacked, in the hopes it might eventually be something his son would come to need.

"Of course it's utilitarian," Blaise said. "Its purpose is comfort, which it possesses in spades."

The screen went black as the film ended.

"So then you're comfortable here?" Percy asked.

"Oh, immensely. Plus thirty, at least."

"Thirty what?"

"Oh." Blaise laughed. "Nothing," he said. "Never mind." He took another sip of his wine, half-smiling as he shifted, and looked at Percy with an elusive, unreadable expression.

"You're very cool," said Percy, apropos of nothing, and Blaise's smile erupted.

"I'm what?"

"You're cool," Percy repeated. "Unfairly cool. It's no wonder Will prefers you to me." He took a sip, shaking his head. "I'm just a stuffy old bore by comparison."

"He doesn't prefer me to you, you idiot. He simply needs me right now. He'll need you forever, you're his father. I'm just someone he can conspire with for purposes of, I don't know, adolescent transition. Even though I am very cool," Blaise said, smugly draining his glass.

Percy leaned over, refilling it, and Blaise looked at him again. Like that, again.

"How are things with Tracey?" asked Percy.

"Well, she's been implanted," Blaise said, making a face. "Haven't said that out loud before. It's dreadful, isn't it?"

"A bit," Percy said, and then, "You haven't said it before?"

"Well, I've… Neville knows we had an appointment, obviously, but it's—" Blaise gave his glass a swirl, tipping it up for a heady inhale. "We're having trouble finding the line," he determined.

"What line?"

"The line of what's acceptable to say or not say. How much of the future to plan." Blaise tilted his head back, eyes briefly closing. "The trouble is I do think it's my fault."

Percy glanced at him. "Which part?"

"Occasionally I suspect he'd be happier without me." He blinked.

Percy, who was given to accidentally saying the wrong thing aloud, tried to give him an out. "And Tracey?"

"Oh, she would be too, probably," Blaise said with a grim chuckle, "only I suppose I'm too selfish to let her."

"You're not," said Percy, too softly. Perhaps Blaise had not even heard him.

"I think I keep expecting him to push back somewhere," Blaise mused after a moment's silence, presumably returning to the subject of Neville. "I think I need him to, actually. I'll say things like how I ought to find a new flat for when the baby comes and he just agrees with me. He never asks if I intend for it to be his flat as well. Mostly we just talk about his mother, or his grief, or his fears."

"Fears?"

"His father is… unwell. He suspects it of himself more than ever, like it's some sort of looming inevitability. The father, the son, the holy ghost of chemical imbalance. I'm not sure any amount of conviction will ever truly convince him." Blaise glanced at his glass, tapping it. "I'm not sure he realizes how painful it is, this belief that we're bound to become our fathers in the end. If that's the case, there's no hope for me at all." His smile, wry with pain, was more like a grimace. "But I suppose I can't begrudge a grieving man his occasional twisted fantasies."

"Can't you?" Percy countered.

Blaise glanced sideways.

"It's not madness to wonder if we'll all eventually fall into the traps we set for ourselves," Percy said. "That any of us are considered sane is due largely to the ongoing repression of places our minds try to go."

"I try to provide him with something… combative, in that sense. Reassurance? Comfort? Love?" Blaise shrugged. "It's just that as much as I want to be there for him, I do feel—"

Blaise broke off.

"I feel robbed," he said.

Percy said nothing, waiting.

"It's just… this is why they say to do it with someone you love, you know? Not because sex is conditioned on feelings, but because this is supposed to be about joy, about excitement. I want to speculate about the baby's features! I want to imagine the nursery, the books we'll read and games we'll play, the places we'll go or how soon we'll travel or how we'll make the most of a winter birthday. I can do all that with Tracey, but also, I can't, not really, and I certainly can't with Neville because it's too soon, because he doesn't know where he fits into this, or to life, or to the world. And truthfully, I do think he'd be thrilled if I asked him for more, or at least he'd be willing, but I can't ask him for more because I don't tr-"

Blaise stopped, seemingly just in time to avoid uttering something life-altering. It appeared he was trying to insulate himself from whatever came next, and thus Percy felt it would be rather sportsmanlike not to mention it.

But Percy was not very sporting. "Because you don't trust him?"

Blaise sat very still for a moment.

"That will change, won't it?" he asked.

"I'm sure it will," said Percy.

"Trust grows over time. Things grow over time."

"Yes."

"And if I love him then surely I can trust him."

"Of course."

"God." Blaise shook himself, holding out his glass. "More wine, please."

Percy looked at the empty bottle. "Another?"

"Just a bit more."

"Wait here." Percy rose to his feet, padding down the stairs again, only this time a strange mood clouded his motions. Possibly that was the intoxication. He went into the kitchen, found one of two remaining bottles—this one not very good, meant for cooking, but certainly potable—and stepped outside briefly, waiting until his skin had pebbled with cold before returning up the stairs.

Blaise was reclining against the pillows with his head tilted back in thought, one leg propped up like an artist's muse.

"Let's talk about something else," he said, accepting the fresh glass Percy poured him. "I can't imagine you want to hear this."

"Tell me about the baby," Percy said, stretching out beside Blaise. "What names are you thinking?

"No, that's alright, it's not—"

"I'm a father," Percy reminded him. "Tell me about your baby and I'll tell you about mine."

Blaise gave him a look of overwhelming gratitude.

And then Blaise began to talk. He talked first about what he wanted for his child, and then, gradually, about his own childhood. He talked about the father who was never there and about the "fathers" (his mother's husbands) who came and went. He talked about boarding school, about feeling there was something wrong with him, not because his first crush would later become his closest friend, but because his father had not wanted him and his mother had not wanted him and secretly he felt that if _they_ could not want him, then nobody ever would. He told Percy about the father he would be, and the father he would _not_ be, and the things his child would never have to worry about at night.

To which Percy then shared his own childhood, the moments of quiet he never got, the attention always spared to someone louder or cleverer or better, the life he might never have had if his wife had not fallen in love with someone else. It's strange the way that works, that the worst thing you can imagine happening to you is something you somehow manage to survive, and then later you wonder how you might have possibly lived through the alternative.

"Has there been anyone since your ex-wife?" Blaise asked, and so Percy told him, too wine-drunk by then to feel sheepish, about the neighbor who'd brought over pie after pie after pie until finally he took the hint and gave in. But then he'd moved here, so.

"So that was it? One woman after Audrey and then nothing?"

"That was it," said Percy. Many blind dates courtesy of his mother, but nothing beyond dropping them back at their door at the end of a brief but courteously expensive dinner.

"No one else?" Blaise was plainly astonished.

"Did you happen to see a line outside my door when you arrived?"

"But you're so…" Blaise said, gesturing to Percy, who blinked.

"So what?"

"Come on." Blaise groaned. "You're going to make me say it?"

"Say what?"

"You cheeky minx." Blaise leaned over, brushing Percy's stomach with his forearm and then his chest while he poured the last of the wine. "I'm not saying it," he said, aiming the wine bottle pointedly at Percy's nose, one arm still braced on Percy's thigh. "You can't make me."

"If you say so," Percy said, and then it happened.

For whatever reason, Blaise looked down.

At first neither of them said anything. But then—

"Is that…?" Blaise broke off, peering at Percy with a look that was entirely mischief, like Will on his worst (or perhaps best) days. "Are you…?"

"We were talking about sex," Percy said, fighting a raging blush.

"Ages ago, yeah, but you're…" Blaise looked at him. "You're hard," he said, vacantly awed.

Whatever Percy had expected Blaise's reaction to be, that certainly wasn't it. "For what it's worth, a gentleman wouldn't comment on the state of another man's erection," he said, hopefully blithely.

"I'm not even remotely a gentleman," Blaise said in a dry voice, which only made things horribly worse.

"Well, clearly we've had enough of this," Percy said, reaching over to remove the glass from Blaise's hand, though of course Blaise would not relent. "Oh, come on," he sighed, opting to take it all in stride. "You can't be that terribly surprised, can you? I did tell you you're very cool."

"So you…" Blaise trailed off, glancing down again. "For me, really?"

You're extremely attractive, Percy considered saying. You're charming and intelligent and you brought life back into my life. You make me feel alive, and isn't that worth getting a little too excited about from time to time? It's innocent and inevitable, you and me and the irresponsible rush of my blood, like maybe I'm still young enough to have some lust or stupidity or worse, some heartache left to squander.

But "Yes," was all Percy said instead, and Blaise blinked, sliding down in the blankets and cushions until he was face to face with what was ostensibly Percy's cock.

"This is absurd," said Blaise absurdly, considering Percy from his southern vantage point. "Why didn't this happen a year ago? Two years ago?"

His breath was warm and very close. Touch me, Percy thought with incalculable recklessness, and kicked himself.

"If I'd known you were… amenable," Blaise said, twisting to look up at Percy, "there's no way I'd have kept my hands to myself this long."

"I didn't think you'd have any interest in me," Percy said with a swallow, which was true enough. When they'd first met he'd been a mess, a divorced single father whose son hated him outright. He was also, as his mother had so aptly and underwhelmingly stated almost two decades ago, a bit queer. "I would never have said anything." If not for the trivial betrayals of nature.

"But—" Blaise's proximity was driving him effortlessly mad. "But if I'd known…"

He trailed off and then closed his eyes, his forehead meeting Percy's thigh in palpable defeat.

"I don't want to ruin things," Blaise murmured. "You don't understand, you can't possibly…" He stopped. "You make me want to be better than I've been. Better than I am. It's why I spend so much time with you," Blaise admitted. "For Will, obviously, but also because you…"

He cleared his throat.

"Because for most of my life I have hated myself unrelentingly," he said, voice breaking. "But I like myself when I'm with you."

A twinge of something dangerous struck Percy square in the chest.

"Nothing is ruined," he told Blaise, reaching down carefully, very carefully, to run his palm over Blaise's head, soothingly. "Do you really think all I could possibly want from you is sex?"

Blaise said nothing.

"I'm not asking for anything from you, Blaise. I don't know what you think you've done, but I know what kind of man you are, and as for whether that's someone to be hated—"

"You don't understand," Blaise cut in, sounding pained. "If this were years ago, I wouldn't even hesitate. You don't understand what I did, what I've _done_—"

"But it's not years ago," Percy reminded him. "It's now, and you're the man that you are, not whoever you were then. And, if what you told me is true, then you're also the man that you want to be. So maybe there's no point being so hard on yourself, is there? So long as you continue to be him."

Slowly, gradually, Blaise sat up.

"So if I go home now," he said. "If I leave now, then tomorrow…?"

"Then tomorrow you'll be the man who wakes up in your boyfriend's bed with your conscience intact," Percy said. "You and I will still be friends. And that will be enough for me," he said firmly. "More than enough."

Will it be enough for you? Percy did not ask, because he did not presume the answer would turn out in his favor. The hazard and the privilege of being little loved is expecting so marvelously little in return.

"My life is finally my own," Percy said, because it still seemed his turn to speak. "So the fact that you find it comfortable here comforts me. The fact that you care so greatly about the most important person in my life comforts me. You are welcome here, always," he said, surprised by how emphatically the words had left his mouth.

Blaise looked at him, unreadable again, and then glanced outside, to where the rain hadn't stopped or even diminished. Then he frowned at the empty bottles sitting beside Percy's left arm, as if suddenly recalling the impairment to his judgment.

"What if I'm the man who wakes up in a fort with my conscience intact?" Blaise asked.

Silently, Percy was flooded with relief.

"Then we'll do pancakes for breakfast, I suppose," said Percy, and Blaise smiled, plucking the clicker from the arm of the sofa and pulling up Netflix on the screen.

* * *

"Am I going to have two dads?" asked Will.

Percy looked up from his desk, bewildered. "What?"

"I thought you already had two dads," said Padma, who had been coming in and out of Percy's office all afternoon. Will, who was normally being looked after during these times, had requested to silently do his homework there instead, which had not been a problem until approximately thirty seconds ago.

"Kevin isn't my dad," said Will. (Kevin was not Will's stepfather's name, and in fact seemed to be something of a vengeance tactic. Percy knew he ought to chastise his son for this, but he found himself habitually incapable of managing it.)

"Why would you ask?" Percy said. Something he'd learned about children was that it was best not to leap to conclusions. They were almost never talking about what he thought they were talking about.

"Is Blaise going to be my other dad," Will clarified slowly, proving that sometimes children were talking about precisely what Percy had been afraid they were talking about.

Padma glanced at Percy, questioning. But since Percy could not explain this to her _and_ to his nine-year-old son at the same time—or even in similar words—he opted to address Will primarily. "What made you think of it?"

"Ned has two dads," said Will, referring to one of his three school friends, the others of which were Jimmy and Posy, boy-girl twins who were very loud but also very enthusiastic. Ned was quite recent, so Percy had not had the opportunity to know that Ned had two dads. To his knowledge, Ned was merely the one with the ears who spoke primarily in Manchester statistics.

"And you want Blaise to be your other dad?" asked Percy. "Or are you saying you'd prefer him to be your dad instead of me."

"Well, I'm stuck with you," said Will.

"True," Percy acknowledged.

"But Blaise makes better pancakes."

"Also true," said Percy, ignoring Padma's sidelong glance.

"So it just seemed like a mutually beneficial situation," said Will. 'Mutually beneficial' was one of his favorite phrases as of late, which Percy was privately very tickled to know had come from him.

"Well, I can't speak for Ned's dads, but I imagine they must be in a romantic relationship," said Percy.

"What do you mean?"

"You remember Mummy and I used to be married?"

"Yes." Duh, said Will's face, which was something Padma's face also often said.

"Ned's parents are likely also married."

"They are," confirmed Padma, who had somehow managed to look up Ned's parents in the amount of time Percy had been addressing his son. "See?" she said, holding up a darling family photo that she appeared to have found on Facebook.

"Does that mean they'll get divorced as well?" asked Will.

"Not necessarily. Probably not." Percy paused. "Is that confusing?"

"Not really," said Will, shrugging. "I just wanted to know if Blaise is going to come live with us."

Oh good, that was straightforward. "He is not, I'm afraid. Blaise has his own home."

"But he said he liked ours."

"Yes, that's true."

"And he likes you."

"Not in the marriage way," Percy said, to which Will frowned, and then sighed.

"Alright," he said. "Well, it's not what I'd hoped."

He looked so crestfallen that Percy had to prevent a laugh.

"Sorry," said Percy. "I don't think anyone will be coming to live with us anytime soon."

"What about Padma?" asked Will, brightening.

Marvelous. "Padma?" Percy prompted.

"Mm, likely not," said Padma. "I'm afraid I do not make pancakes."

"Well, it's not really about that," said Will.

"Then what's it about?" asked Percy.

"Ned's dads have each other. And Mum's got Kevin," said Will.

Wordlessly, Padma melted.

"But you've got no one," Will pointed out bluntly to Percy, spoiling the possibility of sentiment.

"I've got you," Percy said.

"Yeah, but I've also got Ned and Jimmy and Posy," said Will, before apparently losing interest in the conversation. "May I go find Hortense and Thibaut?"

"Yes," said Percy.

"Careful," Padma added. "If you say their names three times you'll conjure them up from the netherworlds."

"Really?" asked Will, delighted, and before either of them could stop him, "HORTENSE AND THIBAUT, HORTENSE AND THIBAUT, HORTENSE A-"

"PEEVES," barked a voice from the corridor, followed by the swanning form of Hortense herself (much to Will's obvious glee). "I thought I felt a disturbance just now. Was it you?" she demanded.

Most recently in Percy's attempts to keep their neighbors distracted, he had settled a variety of nests into their grandfather clocks. Aptly, one of the birds was now carefully held in one of Thibaut's hands while another sat perched on his shoulder. Thibaut appeared to be feeding one or more of them by hand, which was both very charming and a nuisance. Next time, Percy reasoned, he'd have to give them a reason to leave the house.

"I don't suppose you've any interest in solving a murder," Percy postulated aloud.

"Bring in the corpse and we'll charge our usual fee," replied Thibaut, so Percy struck it from future postulation.

"How did you get here so quickly from the netherworlds?" asked Will.

"Young man, please do not pry," said Hortense.

"There are really only four contemporary realms," said Thibaut.

"Perhaps a jewel hunt?" said Percy.

"For an incorporeal ghost you have an uncanny interest in material possessions," remarked Hortense.

"He's not a ghost," said Will.

"Do you have any proof?" asked Thibaut.

"No?" said Will.

"Then there you go," replied Hortense.

"Why don't you go check the Malfoy apartments for trick staircases?" suggested Percy, which reminded him to have one installed. He had also recently planted several books that contained recordings of screams, which he hoped would not backfire. Favorably, though, Hortense and Thibaut did not seem to read during the wee hours. "Unless you're not finished with your schoolwork."

"Nearly done," Will lamented, glancing mournfully up at Thibaut. "Do you know anything about the Anglo-Saxons?"

"We could consult the grimoire," suggested Thibaut.

"What about fractions?" asked Will.

"I think you're a bit young to be partitioning your soul," reasoned Hortense, "but as Handsome Tom always says, satisfaction brought it back."

"What?" asked Will.

"The cat," said Thibaut.

"Schrödinger's cat?" asked Padma.

"Certainly not," said Hortense. "Dead or alive, it bites."

"Is there anything to be done here?" asked Astoria, which for a moment did not seem unusual (comparatively, anyway) until they all collectively realized that 1) Astoria had not been in the doorway previously and 2) was not supposed to be there, but 3) was there now, visibly distressed, and therefore 4) none of them should panic. That being said, Hortense had jumped comically at the sight of her, half-pantomiming electrocution or some other static shock.

"Is that a baby?" asked Will, frowning at the bundle strapped to Astoria's chest.

"Oh. Yes," said Astoria, distractedly. "Hello, Will."

"Do you need somewhere to live?" asked Will.

Astoria looked startled. "What?"

"Oh, he's just… never mind him," Percy leapt in quickly. "Thibaut, you were saying about haunted books?"

"My god, now the books?" exclaimed Thibaut, exiting the room at a sprint.

"It's not as if the afterlife is going anywhere," called Hortense, turning to follow after him. "At least wait twenty minutes before you seance! And as for you," she said to Will, "I'm sure we've got some Æthelstan propaganda lying around—"

"BE BACK LATER DAD," shouted Will, following like a puppy at her heels.

"Is everything alright?" Padma asked Astoria in the meantime, who seemed to travel a long way from her thoughts.

"Hm? Oh, yes, I just… needed to do something," she said. "To stretch my legs, I suppose. Is there something I can do here?"

The answer was obviously no, given that nobody had expected Astoria to arrive and they were a reasonably competent office, but Padma had telegraphed across the room that under no uncertain terms was Percy allowed to say that. Not that he would have.

"We're swamped," he said instantly, which Padma said in a grimace was too much. "Well, we could use some help, anyway," he said. "Shall I bring some things into your office?"

"Or I can," suggested Padma, chiming in with a sudden breathlessness. "Hermione and Draco are still in Ireland for the week, but she's doing a speech at a children's hospital next week. Would you be able to help with that?"

"Has Daphne decided what she's wearing?" asked Astoria. "I just had a thought about a dress from one of her early years that we could have altered. Given the economy, you know, I felt we should increase her use of vintage items, or refresh some of her current wardrobe—"

"Yes, that's perfect," exhaled Padma, and briefly, Astoria's tired face lit from within with relief.

"I'll just get settled in my office, then," she said, turning away.

Padma, who had to brush past Percy in order to follow Astoria to her office, was stopped by Percy with a hand on her arm.

"Pretty girl in the office making you go all gooey? How very unlike you."

"Remind me again why Blaise made you pancakes?" countered Padma quite viciously.

"Touché," said Percy, sitting down at his desk to finally get back to work.

* * *

"You don't go on dates," Will observed over dinner later that week.

"Hm?" asked Percy, who had been chewing. The salmon was perfect, though admittedly baked salmon always seemed more impressive than it was.

"You don't go on dates," Will repeated. "But Mags's dad dates and that's why she has a babysitter who lets her stay up late and stuff."

"Who does?"

"Magnolia," he said. "She's in my class."

"Are all the girls in your class named after flowers?"

"Only like, four of them."

"Aren't you supposed to be learning about Vikings?"

"Hortense already explained everything," said Will matter-of-factly. "And why don't you go on dates?"

"I would if I liked someone enough to go on them," Percy said.

"But Mags's dad—"

"Will," said Percy, hoping to derail whatever poor Mags was unintentionally observing about the world via her father, "the idea isn't to simply fill your house with someone just because it's empty. It's okay to be alone, and anyway I'm not alone. I have you."

Will gave him a skeptical look, and then looked even more skeptically at his carrots.

"I just think maybe I messed up?" Will said to his carrots.

"How so?" asked Percy, carefully arranging a forkful of orzo.

"I don't know." Will fidgeted, and Percy's phone buzzed. He waited, watching Will pick moodily at his food, and then turned the screen over.

An email from Snape, which he would deal with after dinner. Another message from Blaise, which he opened. _No news for now. Next week maybe. How's Will's cornering coming along?_

Percy opened the message, replying, _It took me about two hundred tries to bring him in from the garden. You've created a monster._

A buzz. _Excellent. I'm rather monstrous myself._

When Percy glanced up with a smile, Will was looking at him.

"I think there should be another rule," Will said.

"Oh?" said Percy.

"Well, if you have to love me then I should have to love you back," said Will.

"I don't want to overstress your Viking studies," said Percy.

"I told you, Hortense already explained it," said Will impatiently, "and anyway I don't think it's fair."

"Love isn't about fairness. Sometimes, but not always."

Will considered this, but then appeared to reject it. "I just think you could make more rules if you want to," he said, exasperated.

"I think you're a very respectful housemate as it is," said Percy, raising his fork at the precise moment he heard a loud, aggressive knock.

"What's that?" said Will, alarmed. "A robber?"

"Probably not," said Percy.

"What if it is?"

"Robbers don't usually announce themselves with a knock."

"What if it's a murderer?"

"That would be very bad news indeed," said Percy.

The knocks came again, more insistent.

"If it's a murderer, don't answer," said Will.

"Good idea," said Percy, rising to his feet. "Wait here and I'll go check."

"BUT HOW WILL YOU KNOW?" yelled Will.

"Fatherly intuition," Percy called back, peering through the door panel to find himself entirely taken aback.

"Who is it?" hissed Will, who had skittered unhelpfully into the hall.

"Go upstairs," said Percy. "To your nook, okay?"

"What?"

"Just for a bit, I promise. Twenty minutes."

"But _why_—"

"You said I needed to make more rules," Percy reminded him.

Will groaned but turned, tromping up the stairs. Percy waited until the groans and stomps had reached the top floor and then opened the door, finding himself face to face with the last person he expected to see.

"My Lord," Percy said, bowing to the visiting earl.

Neville Longbottom seemed taken aback by the formal address, though he recovered quickly.

"We need to talk," he said, and Percy stepped genially aside, cataloguing the fumes of gin on Neville's breath and clothes in silence.

"If you could please stay in the front room," Percy said. "My son is upstairs."

Neville flinched at the mention of Will, though he turned to face Percy with a spiteful glare. "Does he know what you've done?"

"Depends," Percy said, who, come to think of it, used the same methods for adults as he did for children. "What have I done?"

"You know." Neville paced for a moment, glowering around the house. "That night Blaise didn't come home, I know he was here."

"He was," Percy agreed slowly.

Neville seemed to find it irritating that he hadn't chosen to say more.

"Do you think I don't know?" Neville hurled at him. "You think I can't see it?"

Percy said nothing.

Then gradually, after nearly a minute, Neville's expression faltered.

"I can see it," Neville said, pained.

Then he wandered from the foyer to the nearest sitting room chair and lowered himself onto it, cradling his head in his hands.

"I'm going mad," Neville said to himself.

Percy carefully took the seat beside him. "Grief can do that to a person."

"It's not grief."

"Isn't it?"

Neville looked blearily at him.

"Please," he said, "don't make me feel any more mental than I already do."

"A difficult task," Percy noted. "You've shown up at my house uninvited. My child is home, and you're making very serious accusations."

Neville flinched. "I think I had it in my head that I'd frighten you a bit."

"What, rough me up, you mean?" Percy cast a wry, sidelong glance at Neville. "I may not look like much, but I'm the third of six brothers." Which was not even to mention his sister, the most vigorously combative of them all.

"God." Neville had his head so low it nearly hung between his knees. "Just tell me and put me out of my misery," he said, the sound of it muffled into his hands.

"Hasn't Blaise told you?" asked Percy.

Neville said nothing.

"If you're afraid to ask him because you think you won't like the answer," Percy began, but was immediately interrupted.

"I'm not afraid to ask him," Neville snapped. "I just can't stand hearing him lie."

"You're that certain he'd lie?"

"He's done it before."

"And you've done it recently," Percy guessed.

Neville raised his head with a grimace, his expression tightly drawn.

"You think you'll be happy," he commented bitterly to nothing. "You think, of course, obviously, love will be enough. You think, how could it not be? When you've wanted this, to be one of them, for so long." He curled a hand around his mouth, sighing into it. "But I can feel the secrets on him. I know them, I recognize them, because I used to be one of those unsaid things. I see him smile at his phone, at his thoughts, at his friends, at anything that isn't me. He touches me and it's not the same, because it used to be that he was there with me and now I'm—" Neville broke off, staring into the kitchen.

"I love him," he said firmly. "And I know that he loves me. But." This was implied, and Percy waited.

"But I forgot the man I fell in love with was a liar. And I didn't know that every time I looked at him, I'd remember that I'm one, too."

_He'd be happier without me_, Blaise had said.

And there it was.

Percy let a long period of silence pass before he spoke.

"I think," he said, "that perhaps I'm not the person you're angry with."

"It would appear not," said Neville sullenly.

Percy reached for his phone. "Well," he said. "Shall I call you a car?"

"No need." Neville rose to his feet, walking quickly to the front door and then pausing for a moment, looking over his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not… I'm not this person. I don't think I am."

He glanced up, spotting something on the stairs that Percy felt certain was his own mutinous son, and then turned to the door, letting it shut behind him.

"This," Percy said, pivoting toward the stairs, "is why I don't make rules. You'll only break them."

"It's not my fault," Will insisted, rising to his feet with an explosive huff. "And I only technically meant the rules about feelings and stuff."

Privately, Percy took it as a win that his son believed love needed only to be asked for in order to be received. Life, experience, and other anomalies like their most recent visitor might eventually prove otherwise, but for now, he'd done his job as a father.

His son felt loved, and that was enough.

"Eat your carrots," Percy said over the sound of Will's loud groan, permitting himself a brief moment of victory before the next inevitable parenting defeat.

* * *

"So when Astoria touches her stomach it's maternal, but when I do it it's… unbecoming?" Hermione asked, frowning. "They're calling me 'Barbie Baby Bump'—does that even make sense?"

"No," Percy informed her, "it doesn't." But such was the nature of having nothing better to discuss. Abraxas was so dreadfully healthy, his medications and treatment so readily managed, and the royal marriages were so disgustingly stable. Repulsive, particularly when so many British citizens who'd voted to leave in the midst of a recession were just now discovering what that would mean. As it turned out, Umbridge's cult of xenophobia was rather unprepared to watch their beloved NHS get auctioned off to the worst nightmares of all: Bagman-touting American businessmen.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, setting her hands idly on her stomach before abruptly retracting them. "I can't believe I'm even doing _motherhood_ wrong," she sighed.

"You're not," Percy assured her. "For one thing you couldn't possibly, and for another, what does Zacharias Smith know? Last I checked he's never had to contend with something growing inside him."

"He certainly has not," Hermione agreed, returning her hand to her stomach without catching herself this time. "It's still very spooky, I have to admit. Possibly more so."

"Oh?"

"I sometimes feel a bit of a… spasm?" she said, frowning. "A muscle twitch? Something like that."

"Audrey said something similar," Percy agreed, recalling his wife's impressions of the baby's kicks. "I suppose that sort of magic in real life _would_ be very strange, wouldn't it? It's why the fae notoriously prefer changelings."

Hermione spared him a thin smile. "Your insistence that I'm a witch is very kind, Percy."

"Technically I believe I said it was a paranormal matter," he said. "Though I suppose that does not, in fact, discount witches."

"No." She rose to her feet, glancing down. "At least now I look properly pregnant and not just… swollen."

"I doubt His Highness has any qualms," Percy said, and did not add that in fact, his favorite version of Audrey had indeed been the pregnant version. Perhaps it had been wrong of him, but there were certain less cerebral moments of manhood in life, and watching your wife carry your child was one of the more primitive ones.

"No, that he does not," Hermione said with a laugh, before her cheeks colored slightly. "Not that you want to hear about it, I'm sure."

Percy bowed, excusing himself to return to his office. "For the good of the kingdom, I'm pleased," he said, leaving her to chuckle into nothing.

He strode down the hall, heading to Snape's office and poking his head in. "Anything else before I leave for the day?" he said, and Snape looked up, considering something.

"Close the door," said Snape, which Percy obliged, taking the seat opposite him.

"So," Snape said, turning his computer screen towards Percy. "This is a matter we would not be well-advised to hide."

Percy swallowed a thousand knives in the form of DEPRAVED ROYAL COURTIER A BAD LAD PANCAKE ENTHUSIAST? and transitioned calmly to look at the screen.

"Oh," he said, surprised.

"You may want to warn Lady Astoria," Snape said, sliding the screen back. "I'd have Padma do it but she's been at the Palace all day."

"I… sir, I don't think—"

"She already knows," Snape said, already returning to an email. "But tell her this time there's nothing to be done about it."

"This time?" Percy echoed.

Snape glanced at him. "I'm afraid it's none of our business anymore," he said, leaving Percy to exit his office in a daze.

It was one of the rare times that Percy was pleased to have such a misbehaving son. There was always a certain lowering of guards around a person who was visibly a failure as a parent, which in this case would be quite necessary for the balance of esteem. Percy gathered Will from his afterschool programme and directed them both to a place he had never actually been before: the Poliakoff townhouse.

As with most houses of its ilk, it was not Astoria who answered the door, but someone on staff. As a result, Percy and Will were made to wait temporarily in the sitting room.

"Are you asking her to come live with us?" said Will.

"We cannot simply invite everyone in the world to live with us," said Percy.

"It's not _everyone in the world_," Will insisted. "She doesn't like her house."

"What makes you say that?"

"There's nothing fun here!"

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

"Well, no one can really know."

"There's no way there's any secret nooks in this house."

"Perhaps not, but—"

"He's not wrong," Astoria said, prompting both men (or rather, one man and one small boy) to turn. "It is unfortunately quite a dull house," she acknowledged to Will, adding, "Are you hungry?"

"No, thanks. So do you want to come and live with us, then?" Will said.

Percy offered Astoria a pained expression that he hoped encapsulated the message: Please do not be offended, he's a terribly awkward child of divorce.

"Does your house have a secret reading nook?" Astoria asked. She settled herself beside Percy on the sofa, not even looking at him.

"Yes. It's mine technically, but I'd share," said Will generously.

"Well, that's quite a good offer, thank you. Unfortunately I don't think you'd want to share with Gwen, because she does cry a lot."

"But she won't cry forever, will she? Mags says her little sisters cried all the time but then stopped eventually."

Percy made a mental note to check in with Mags, who was apparently one of a horde of young women being raised by what he could only imagine to be a slovenly lothario.

"Eventually she will stop, yes," said Astoria. "But it may be some time yet, so I'm not sure you'll be so pleased to have us."

Will considered this. "Can I see how loud she cries?"

"She's in the nursery with Alice if you'd like to run upstairs," Astoria said.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," said Percy, speaking for the first time in this exchange. "If you've got company we certainly don't have t-"

"Oh no, Alice is our part-time nanny—"

"BE RIGHT BACK," shouted Will, launching up the stairs without further commentary and leaving Astoria and Percy to sit alone.

"A nanny must be very helpful," commented Percy.

"It was Alex's idea," said Astoria blankly. "He felt I'd be overwhelmed."

"Ah."

They sat in silence a moment longer, and then another moment.

And then several moments.

"So," Astoria said. "May I presume you're not actually here to suggest I move in with you?"

Percy shifted in his seat, adjusting his spectacles.

"I feel as if it will cloud what I say next," he said, "but you will always have a place with us if you need one."

Astoria blinked, and then her face went purposefully, painterly still.

"Bad press then, is it?" she asked in a too-cheery register.

"Snape seemed to suggest you may have… come by something similar before," Percy told her. "But he said to tell you that this time there's nothing he can do."

"Which tabloid?" asked Astoria.

"One of the Greek ones. The picture is—" Percy cleared his throat. "Quite tame?"

Astoria gave him a doubtful look.

"Nothing's happening," Percy said quickly. "He's with a woman, but she's—"

"Clothed?" asked Astoria.

"Oh yes, definitely," fumbled Percy. "They're… Well, they're exiting a very busy establishment, so it's possible he's just escorting her to the car, or—"

"It was the same the first time," Astoria said. "The pictures in Berlin from the nightclub. She was wearing his jacket and of course it could have been nothing. But with everyone accusing me of paying undue attention to Draco, Snape felt it could go either way: either this would land solely on Alex, or it would fuel the rumors that something else was going on in the family. He warned me that we could pay the photographers off one time, but if Alex slipped up again then the Palace couldn't be known to do it twice." Astoria stared ahead, unblinking. "I felt it was the right decision then, and I believe it will be now. Nobody could reasonably accuse Draco of straying anyway, not while he and Hermione have been all over the press. Certainly not while she's carrying his child."

Privately, Percy doubted Astoria was right about that. Fair or not, nobody seemed to care about Hermione's feelings, and at this point he felt it unlikely they ever would. But that seemed irrelevant to mention.

"So I take it you weren't able to get through to him," Percy said with what he hoped was an appropriate degree of gentleness, and only then did Astoria turn to look at him.

"I didn't find it worth mentioning at the time," she said. "I imagine that's why he's gotten so careless."

Percy's brow furrowed. "But—"

"Alex will do what he likes," she said. "I don't think I should have to _ask_ him not to misbehave, should I? And anyway, perhaps it's nothing, like you said." She tilted her head, staring off again. "I'm starting to find it a bit easier when he's not here," she admitted. "I love my daughter, of course, but it's a very full-time love, if that makes sense. No, that makes it sound like a bad thing. It's more like…" She tilted her head. "I find that because of her, I now lack the energy for all the other things I used to do."

"Like work?"

"Like be Alex's wife." Astoria fixed Percy with another disarming glance. "I trained myself to think of him first for so long that now I'm all discombobulated. I'm starting to forget which perfume he prefers or what he needs packed or what my face ought to look like when he's talking. Instead I'm thinking of whether Gwen needs to eat soon or how much longer she'll likely be asleep. Or I'm just… missing her. Wondering what she's doing, even if it's only sleeping."

Percy wondered if it was something about his face or perhaps in the water that was landing him in all these severely personal conversations. He remembered, though, that Astoria had once done the same for him.

"It is difficult," he said slowly, "to try to be everything to everyone."

She gave him a look he presumed to be agreement.

"Is it harder to do it alone?" she asked.

Percy adjusted his cufflinks, biding his time. He was accustomed to missing several arenas of subtexts, but every now and then he felt the air becoming heavier when certain things were being said. He recognized, even if he did not fully understand, the presence of great magnitude.

"In some ways yes," he said. "In others, no."

A rather pathetic answer, but Astoria nodded slowly.

"The thing is," she said, "if Gwen had been a boy, I don't think I'd feel this way. But the trouble with girls is you can't quite protect them." She folded her arms in, looking very shrunken and small. "The magazines will tell her she ought to be prettier or skinnier or that she ought to enjoy sex, but also she mustn't ever be known to enjoy it. The films she watches will tell her which girls are good and get rewarded for their goodness and which ones don't. I can never truly shield her from it, from the pain of suspecting she's not quite right, no matter what she does. I can love her and cherish her as she is, of course, but I can't teach her not to wonder about her worth. And I also know," Astoria exhaled, "that I certainly cannot even _try_ to do it for as long as I stay with him."

She turned to look at Percy. "Your son sees things, doesn't he? Things you don't tell him."

"Yes." His loneliness, for one. His wife's resentment of him, for another. How hard it was, Percy thought, to teach a boy to be a man under such limiting circumstances.

"Right." Astoria sighed. "So I certainly can't tell her to value herself if I won't even do the same for me."

Percy furiously wished that his son were in the room. Will always had a way of dealing with situations like this. Not that it was always a _good_ way, but it was a very true and usually helpful way. For a moment Percy was overcome with gratitude and admiration for his son, who could always say the things that he himself struggled to translate.

"You do always have a home with us if you ever need one," Percy attempted, painfully and tragically uncomfortable, and for a moment, Astoria looked at him like there was light leaking out from his eyeballs.

"I think it would probably look quite bad if I moved directly into the home of a single divorcé," she said pragmatically.

"Right," said Percy, having forgotten entirely about the optics of his unsuitability (he'd been busy drowning in its reality).

"But I do think it would be very nice to talk with you sometimes," Astoria said. "If you don't mind."

"I don't mind," Percy said, relieved that he didn't seem to have said anything explicitly wrong.

In return, Astoria smiled at him.

"How lucky to be reminded that there are still some proper men in the world," she said, and though Percy could have argued that his ex-wife supremely disagreed, he felt it was better under the circumstances to take the compliments as they came.

* * *

"Well, it's not ideal," said Snape about the fallout from Astoria Poliakoff's separation from her husband, "though it will likely blow over soon. The good thing about royal baby fever is the tendency to be very distracting," he commented, returning his attention to the paperwork before him. Among the forthcoming events was Prince Draco's thirtieth birthday, which meant a great deal of very public tribute. Abraxas, in an effort to display family amicability, had planned a large party for which there would be ample (but discreet!) amounts of press. Astoria's presence would likely cause a variety of new rumors, but Hermione would be relieved to have her there. As was Percy's recent mantra, one simply took the wins where one could find them.

Spring was flowering all around when Percy returned home that evening, Will chattering on about Mags and Jimmy and Posy and Ned and another friend or possibly an animal sidekick called Pony. His phone buzzed thrice as they drove but he was busy trying to listen, mentally gathering the materials for something called "breakfast pizza" which Will had eaten with Ned and now wished to have for every meal. It revolved around the replication of a restaurant fontina sauce, which was perfectly fine with Percy. Being human, he had a fondness for basil and shallots and cheese.

"Why do you think some people have two dads?" asked Will while Percy was thinly slicing cloves of garlic.

"The same reason some people have none," said Percy. "Life just looks different sometimes, depending who's doing the living."

"Are boys supposed to only like girls?" asked Will.

Ah, troubling. Percy set down the knife.

"Well," he said, "I don't know about supposed tos or shoulds. But I know about cans."

"What?" said Will.

"Sometimes it's just about the person," Percy said, "and the boy or girl bits don't matter at all."

"Really?" asked Will.

"Sometimes," Percy repeated. "And that's fine. Other times it matters very much, and that's also fine. Either way it's fine, because people are allowed to feel however they feel so long as nobody's getting hurt by it. And so long as all parties involved can equally say yes."

This seemed reasonable enough to Will. "Did you like Mum's bits?" he said.

"Yes," said Percy.

"What about other bits?"

Hm. Tricky. "It's not really about the bits for me."

"What's it about?"

"Cleverness," said Percy, "and kindness. And goodness." And occasional irreverent smirks or literary references. And sometimes the bits, of course, on occasions of tipsy pillow forts or lacy bra removal. "But you don't have to worry about that yet," Percy added. "Someday you might feel differently, but for now you're very lucky and don't have to think about it at all."

"That is lucky," Will agreed, and Percy's mobile phone buzzed again.

He dried his hands while the cream sauce simmered, flipping the screen to find it ringing. "May I take this?" he asked his son.

"I don't care," said Will, and so Percy answered.

"Percy?" said Blaise, breathless.

"Yes?"

"Can I come over?"

"You sound—" Ecstatic. "Happy."

"I am. Very. But also terrified."

"Well, then you'd better come at once. Will you join us for breakfast pizza?"

"My god, what is that? No don't tell me, I'll be there soon."

Blaise was buzzing from the time he burst through the door, practically gleaming. He smiled too much and too often, and toasted fervently to the very idea of potatoes on pizza, praising the excess of starch and yet hardly eating a bite. Percy, sensing something rather private, sent Will up to his nook to finish his homework and then poured Blaise a glass.

"What's this?" asked Blaise.

"Juice," said Percy, and resumed his seat beside Blaise, each of them occupying one edge of the table's corner. "So?"

Blaise drummed his fingers, then crossed his twitching ankle over one leg. "She made me promise not to tell until after we saw the doctor," he managed, and Percy's heart filled and overfilled, flooding his chest and reaching, somehow, his kidneys.

"Congratulations," he said, because he was not such an idiot not to notice a source of joy when he saw it.

"Thank you. Though there is… more." Blaise swallowed, then turned, twitching, to Percy, his foot propped up on the leg of Percy's chair. "She's got an offer to go to the States for work. A year, maybe two depending on the visa."

"Oh?" Percy said. Lacking something to do with his hands, he reached for Blaise's glass.

"Are you drinking my juice?" asked Blaise.

It appeared so. "Yes."

"That's fine, I'll share. But I suppose I'll just say it—I'm going with her," Blaise exhaled.

Percy's lungs emptied. "You are?"

"I'm not going to miss a moment," Blaise said breathlessly. "Not one, not a breath, not a blink, not a smile. I'll transfer to an office in San Francisco or I'll take a sabbatical, I don't care. I've already spoken in vague terms to Helen and David, they live in the area. Apparently Hermione was born in a hospital named for some sort of guerrilla arborist and she turned out very nearly fine, so—"

"This was Tracey's idea?"

"She was of two minds, given everything. She thought I wouldn't agree but I told her she couldn't possibly turn it down. It's a brilliant chance, and since I…" He trailed off, turning to Percy. "It's just such a brilliant chance for her, and I already robbed her of that once."

"And Neville will join you?" asked Percy.

This and only this seemed to dampen Blaise's excitement.

"Well," said Percy, clearing his throat. "You needn't—"

"We broke it off shortly after that night," Blaise admitted. "The night he came here. I'm so sorry about that, by the way," he added earnestly. "I've been meaning to bring it up to you, but I wasn't sure how—"

"No apology necessary," Percy said.

"That's patently false," scoffed Blaise. "But it occurred to me that he would be better off… that he _should _be better off," he said. "And truthfully I knew. Long before that, I knew."

He swallowed, and then turned to Percy.

"Please say you're happy for me," Blaise pleaded quietly. "I haven't told any of the others yet because I know it'll be much more complicated, and I'm not ready for that at all. I just… I know it's mad, there's more to be done and discussed and I don't have all the answers yet, but—"

Percy, heedlessly, abandoned the juice, twisting in his seat to take hold of Blaise's shoulders. "I am ecstatically pleased for you," he said at once. "So, so pleased. You've always deserved a proper adventure."

Blaise dissolved. "Have I?"

"Oh god, yes," Percy said ardently. "No one deserves this adventure more than you."

"God, you can't imagine my relief." Blaise crumpled with it, unburdening or unbuckling or something until he swayed forward, toes still braced on the legs of Percy's chair. "Draco will be kind enough, and Theo, but Pansy won't be able to look at me and Hermione will cry—"

"Out of happiness, Blaise. They'll miss you, of course, but they'll be thrilled for you, I promise." Percy paused, considering it. "I," he clarified, unlodging the loss from his throat. "I will miss you. But I am happy for you, nonetheless."

Blaise reached out, gripping Percy's forearm with one hand.

"I just… I did hope for one thing from you," he admitted. "One other thing that I thought you might tell me."

"I am not very good at this game," Percy warned.

"Nonsense, you've gotten everything else exactly right. It's just—" Blaise looked up at him, scouring him for something that Percy hoped, blindly, he was finding.

"I suppose what I'm hoping," Blaise murmured, "is that you'll tell me that life is long, and opportunities are endless, and that taking one chance doesn't mean I have to miss another."

Percy looked at him, and looked and looked.

"You may find other opportunities," he managed.

"I suppose I might. And so might you."

No, thought Percy. No, I don't think so.

"You may feel differently," he warned, and Blaise reached up, touching Percy's cheek.

"It's true, I might," he said.

But you won't, Percy thought, which was a bolder thing than he normally allowed himself to think.

So he decided to be bold again. For now, and perhaps for always.

"Life is long," Percy said to Blaise, "and opportunities are endless, and taking one chance does not mean you miss another."

"And," he added, because it still seemed to him slightly incomplete, "I will be here when you return."

Blaise smiled crookedly, and a creak on the stair meant that Will had once again employed his spectacular talents for disobedience.

"We will miss you," Percy said, and for the second time in recent memory, he said, "there will always be a home for you here," because in his opinion, that was what made a man, and eventually his son would have to learn it if he hadn't already.

Blaise, who was about to become a father and travel halfway around the world, looked as if he'd finally found a place worth staying.

"Breakfast pizza," he mused with his hand on Percy's cheek, "who knew?"

And thus, Percy thought, all was well.

* * *

I find I used to consider my life in terms of endings, or perhaps more accurately, milestones. Life can be duplicitous in a way, leading us to mistakenly believe we'll be happy only after we've crossed some kind of fairytale bridge. You know the ones: When I have money, I'll be happy. When my family acknowledges my success, I'll be happy. When I have the career or the car or the house or the lover that I want, then finally I'll be pleased, and then and only then will all of this have been worth it.

In reality, no. Life is not a series of achievements, which is both good news and bad, because it is not a series of failures, either. Life is not a list to be made and crossed off. It is the thing that happens to you while you're wide awake and dreaming.

Which is to say that the worst thing that happens is still not the end of the book for you. Turn the page and there is more story to be told, always. I know this because I am uniquely situated, a person of many stories and minds, belonging to divergent paths, and this is how I know that while happiness can be a challenge, joy is easy to find.

Perhaps it is even sitting in the stairwell now, eavesdropping as we speak.

* * *

_**a/n:**_ _Thank you very, very much for being here with me._


	15. Keep Your Friends Close

**Chapter 15: Keep Your Friends Close**

_**DAILY PROPHET**__, The UK's Top Source for Breaking News  
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* * *

_23 May 2020  
York Minster, York, England_

"You've been very quiet today," Harry remarked, leaning in during a moment's distraction in the church.

"Only by comparison," Pansy replied, giving her beaming daughter another small wave from where Jamie sat with the other bridesmaids and the mother of the groom—that endlessly chatty Molly Weasley. The whole affair was a bit ridiculous, given that Draco's dreaded Tonks cousin was there in a ferociously pink hat that did nothing but clash with the outlandish clan of ginger Weasleys, but all weddings were a bit gauche in that respect. The joining of these two families in particular, one effortlessly French and the other the Weasleys, was bound to be a bit of a harrowing social scene.

That being said, the church was lovely (the flowers were tasteful, which meant horrible Molly had had nothing to do with them) and Fleur was positively resplendent. She and her sister were both glowing in the simple, elegant gowns that Daphne had designed, and Bill Weasley, Pansy had to admit, was certainly quite something. The amount of attractiveness standing before the altar was so unfair as to be distracting—Pansy hardly knew where to look without being dazzled by the bride, the stained glass, or the groom.

Harry reached over and squeezed her hand. Pansy squeezed back, then waved once more when Jamie, again, waved to her. Jamie had been thrilled about being one of Fleur's chosen bridesmaids, and though Pansy would never admit it under anything shy of duress, she'd been looking forward to this day with great anticipation as well. Silly as it would have been from the mouth of literally any other mother, nothing could detract from Pansy's inward certainty that no bridesmaid had ever looked more adorable in the history of time. (Teddy, meanwhile, was still a bit young to be a page boy, being not yet two and swinging his chubby legs where he sat between Harry and Draco, but Pansy felt certain his time for unparalleled public cuteness would come.)

She glanced over her shoulder to where Blaise was sitting with Percy and then quickly looked away, catching Harry's sidelong glance. Then Jamie waved again, and Pansy waved back, hoping this childish exuberance would not ruin any wedding pictures but also, not particularly caring if it did.

"You're sure you're not upset?" Harry murmured, tilting his head toward Blaise.

It had been twenty-four hours, give or take, since Blaise had confessed to Pansy his plans to pack up and migrate to the colonies like some sort of carousing pilgrim, and approximately twelve since he'd confessed it to the others. He'd looked particularly anxious about Pansy's reaction, opting to tell her first in private.

"I know you'll call me an idiot," had been his opening remarks. Had she been the distributor of points, Pansy would have happily unloaded some from him just for that.

"You really think I'm cross with Blaise for leaving?" she asked Harry, angling herself slightly to face him. Jamie had gotten distracted from waving to her parents by then in favor of gazing shyly at the girl next to her, one of Fleur's cousins. The two girls were now exchanging floral wreaths like the intimate bosom friends they would be for the rest of the evening, if not time.

"Maybe not cross," Harry acknowledged, stroking the inside of Pansy's wrist with his thumb. "But I know you can't be overjoyed with the idea of losing him. Certainly not to Tracey."

True, Pansy wasn't overly enamored with the prospect, having never really liked Tracey very much and being generally of the opinion that Blaise could stand to procreate with someone bearable instead. "I'm not… thrilled, no," Pansy acknowledged. "But I'm not angry."

The Bishop of York said something probably very fascinating about God and marriage, which Harry had ignored in favor of attending to each of Pansy's knuckles.

"You're something," Harry murmured. "Frustrated? Annoyed? Hungry?"

She slid him a doubtful look. "Hungry, really?"

"Well, it's a reasonable guess." He kissed her fingers, and not for the first time, Pansy took notice of the strands at his temples, the glimpses of silver peppering his beard and black hair. She'd plucked out two of her own grey hairs the other day, much to her dismay. On Harry, aging looked so much… better, and made him oddly more himself. As if outliving his resemblance to his father meant he could finally be a man on his own.

"Actually, I think it's relief," Pansy said, touching her forefinger lightly to his chin. "If I have to put a name to it."

"So you _want_ him gone?" Harry echoed with a stifled laugh. At the motion, Teddy looked over from where he was being distracted by Draco, and then returned to the game, whatever it was.

"Of course not. I just…"

Pansy glanced around the church again in thought, watching Fleur mouth something devilish to her soon-to-be husband whilst Bill winked in return.

"I suppose we've never talked about the fact that I've always suspected it was my fault things went so wrong for him," Pansy admitted, and turned to look at Harry, who was already looking at her. "I was his best friend, but then my life became consumed with you instead. Not that I'd take it back," she added hastily, elbowing Harry when he offered her a particularly lascivious smirk. "I've just… always felt a bit guilty, that's all. So I'm pleased he's doing something for himself instead of something for one of us."

Pansy hadn't forgotten that Blaise had been the first to offer to marry her, and she had very nearly said yes. Was there another universe where she had stolen his life out from under him? Alternatively, was there a universe in which he already had a family and did not have such a terrible desperation to _leave_ in order to make one of his own? Hard to imagine what might be happening to them in those other outcomes, other choices, other dimensions. Perhaps in one of those alternate universes, there was also some sort of mass virus and/or a surprise new album from Taylor Swift.

Never any telling how things might go wrong, or go right.

"I'm supposed to be there for him. At one point he was my first call, always, my first priority. And then… and then everything, and now it's you. You're my world." Pansy gave Harry's hand a squeeze. "I'm just a bit achy with all of it, heartsick in a wistful way. But I think maybe I'm pleased that he doesn't need me anymore. Gives me a reason to consider that maybe I didn't screw it all up," she admitted, releasing Harry's hand to adjust the hem of her dress. She fussed, then stilled, then plucked a bit of lint from the fabric, looking up again to watch Fleur smile, dotingly, up at Bill.

Harry's arm slid around her shoulders, fingers toying idly with her hair.

"Even if you'd offered me a million different paths," he said, leaning over to speak in her ear, "I'd've found my way to you in _at least_… four of them."

She nudged him sharply in the ribs. He laughed in her hair, kissing the top of her head.

"You're never going to lose him," Harry said, stroking her cheek. "Who are any of us without each other? It doesn't work like that. Even when we drift apart, we're still not normal people. We always come back."

"Like addicts?"

"Like sadists." Then he kissed her again.

Pansy settled into the space Harry had made for her at his side; grateful, as she always was, and content. Things had been better since they'd rid themselves of Marietta, though it wasn't until after they'd crossed that bridge that Pansy realized how difficult things had actually been. First there had been her own… tides, as she thought of them, largely due to the sense that at any moment she could be pulled under, and Harry's stress, although never directed at her, which had been impossible not to absorb, brittling her bones and halting her lungs and taking up space in her head beside the preexistence of her own stubborn monsters. She'd thought she'd hate counseling or feel inept or stupid for going, but there was something to be said for finding your way out of the woods. Whatever it took to do it.

So what had changed? Something. Everything. For all there was to admire about seeing yourself through difficulty, there was still more to be loved about those who chose to stay. Not that she doubted it—Harry had always had a talent for staying, and perhaps even overstaying. The real difficulty had been her suspicion that her husband might have been better off without her, which he had done her the precious service of never letting her believe. They'd always been good together, always been relieved and dazzled in some way by what they'd accidentally built, but now it was as if she could see the road before them that hadn't been visible before.

In the back of her mind had always been the creeping fears, the dark ones: he'll wise up and leave someday. Someday this won't always feel so good, or so sweet. But then the someday in question had arrived, and it was not a nightmare like she'd thought. Not because it wasn't difficult or because it hadn't been strenuous, arduous—_hard_—but because somehow, somewhere along the way, she had learned to believe him. She had learned to believe that when her husband said he loved her, that meant more than just a battered sentimentality. It was more than three overused words.

Teddy pointed to Harry's shoe and whispered "shoe," and Pansy glanced over at Draco, who was smiling faintly down. His right hand was tucked into Hermione's and he looked like a soldier, grave and certain, drawn and eager to be home. Pansy couldn't blame him.

While Pansy had lived the somewhat diametric experience of knowing her parents were relatively shitty people and still wanting their approval anyway, Draco had always had his grandfather's approval while believing him, incorrectly, to be faultless. Now, as adult men facing off beneath the indignity of political disagreement, Abraxas' approval was harder to come by. Worse yet was the fact that Draco was about to turn thirty, so being told he was a child or inexperienced was no longer apt to work. Pansy did not envy him the experience of watching his idols grow old and frail, realizing the pedestals he'd saved for them were built on misconceptions. One blow, a meager heart attack, a single misuse of power, and the whole thing came tumbling down.

Pansy knew it was partially Hermione's fault that Draco's psyche was in shambles. How, after all, could one be pristinely happy when the love of one's life was a woman who never denied herself the opportunity to look closer—to spot the source of injustice and sit with the discomfort that other (normal) people regularly pushed aside? Draco might have married some lovely little aristocrat and never noticed any of it, good or bad. He might have settled down with someone like Pansy and been content with the notion that most things about his life were reasonable, or right, simply for being what they had always been.

She knew it was Hermione's fault because Hermione had done the same thing to her, and it was equally unbearable. By necessity, Pansy had never been a creature of politics. Her work for the royal family had always been specifically about early education, family advocacy, and the arts. There were appropriate tasks and controversial ones, and controversy, as a rule, was something Pansy scrupulously avoided. If something unpleasant could not be expressed through the ancient art of polite disdain, then Pansy did not feel any pressing urge to touch it.

But then she'd started to notice things. The more vocal Hermione was, the more people made it their business to call her a bitch, a hypocrite, even a grifter of some kind, as if she'd always been intent on tearing Draco and his family apart. Pansy was, rightly, appalled. Since when had it become appropriate to say such things about anyone, much less a princess? But then she'd looked further, broadened her scope, and noticed: Bagman referred to women by their genitals, to minorities by their stereotypes, to his opponents by the derogation of cheap taunts. Likewise, Umbridge spoke unceasingly of "them," and at this point, there was no turning a blind eye which "them" she might have meant. MPs and congressmen were no longer pressured to resign for bad behavior, but were instead given a platform to scream about their injustices with impunity.

The problem was not that any single group or politician were worse than others had been, but that society as a whole had stopped believing words had power. Now, a barbaric exercise in vitriol was about passion; it was fit to print and reprint as scandal allowed, and power was mistakenly assigned to those who could scream the loudest.

Pansy had mentioned something like it to Remus some weeks ago, around the time that Petunia Dursley (a woman Pansy refused to think of as Harry's aunt) filed for divorce from Vernon Dursley. "Is it really any wonder?" Pansy had said aloud, prompting Remus to look up from his cup of tea. "The man is nothing but rage and nastiness and spittle. Surely she got sick of hearing over the dinner table how immigrants are a disease and liberals are all cheats and frauds."

"You think a little dinner conversation is enough to destroy a marriage?" Remus asked, smiling the small smile he typically offered Jamie when she was following a cerebral train of thought.

"How could it not be? Words destroy people often enough," Pansy said, thinking of how her own interior narrative was rather troublingly founded on her mother's voice of contempt. "And a marriage is only as strong as the people in it."

"True," Remus said, adding playfully, "if only someone made it a priority to discuss such things in some very public way."

Pansy opened her mouth, then closed it. "You're teasing me," she sighed, and Remus smiled: confirmation. "But you know there's no point." Pansy hadn't done anything but what she was told since coming out of the woods post-Teddy, finding it all too massive a headache to put up a fight the way Harry and Hermione always did. "All anyone thinks of me at this point is that I'm a snob with a stick up my bum."

"Someone will listen," Remus said with a shrug. "Someone always does. So what if that someone is a person like Petunia Dursley, who needs to hear it? Or someone like Hermione, who'll take your side? Or," he suggested, sipping his tea with deliberate slowness like the theatrical menace he was, "what if that person is… Jamie?"

Well, he'd shot right to her heart with that, the bastard, and so Pansy had grudgingly conceded, taking her considerations to the Palace and finding herself told for weeks on end to get in line. Draco, who'd heard about her idea somehow—via Harry, probably—had pulled her aside, mumbling something about senior courtesans putting up roadblocks and refusing projects out of concern for Abraxas' health, or because other "initiatives" took precedence first. This project, he said, wasn't particularly time sensitive.

"How could it not be?" Pansy argued. "You do realize that every time a reporter calls your wife a bitch, another person feels they have a right to do it too," she added, and Draco flinched.

"You think I don't know that?" It was the closest they'd come to a row in months. "You think I don't want to personally strangle them all, or at least sue the entire bloody press for libel? But my hands are tied. My grandfather's condition is perfectly under control, but—"

"The Firm is firm?" guessed Pansy, and Draco grimaced in confirmation. "Well. Then we'll find another way."

Ultimately, the only thing the Palace had allowed Pansy to do was to focus her initiative on children, via a social media-based anti-bullying campaign called "Powerful Words." Evidently, reminding the public that she had tits and was coincidentally also a mother was all that was within her capacity as a public figure. Pansy relented without much protest—permitting the Palace a collective sigh of relief that at least one woman in their purview was still safely within their control—but quietly, Pansy had thought: you idiots.

She glanced over at Hermione now, thinking about how sweet the reprimand would inevitably be once the Palace learned she'd used her platform to directly undermine everyone who'd ever let the word 'bitch' manifest on his tongue.

Pansy was, and had always been, the bitch.

Across the church, Jamie was allowing one of the other bridesmaids to braid her hair and Fleur was kissing Bill, and further down the pew Hermione was smiling tearfully, one hand on her stomach. She had refused to tell the others the baby's gender; allegedly, only Draco knew.

"I can't see how it's possibly important to know in advance," had been Hermione's defense of her own ignorance. "Besides, people ought to get used to 'they' as a gender-neutral pronoun, don't you think? We ought to at least normalize that if we're going to run around being so blatantly heteronormative otherwise."

Ridiculous, Pansy thought, and smiled.

Catching it, Harry's hand slipped down from her shoulder to settle around her waist, and Pansy thought of how embarrassingly she cherished him, and then she had another thought, too.

"What do you think about trying for another girl?" she said in his ear.

He broke out in a helpless smile, though he saved her the discourtesy of being forced to acknowledge it.

"Thinking of starting your own coven?" he murmured back.

"Maybe I am," she said with a shrug. "I suspect I could make use of a small army."

He turned to wink at her and she thought my god, I love you so powerfully, so consumingly, that it doesn't even matter if I never mean anything to anyone but you.

She wouldn't know it, of course, but in the same moment, Harry was thinking how terribly unfair it was for her to be so blindingly lovely without a proper audience. He half wanted to look around to see if everyone else was seeing it—but then again, he thought under further consideration, maybe he'd earned the right to have something precious and sacred for himself, so for the rest of his life, she would have to be his best and most favorite secret.

"It's an honor to serve," he said, and kissed her temple again, just in time for the congregation to rise.

* * *

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* * *

_5 June 2020  
Buckingham Palace, London, England_

"You should schmooze," said Daphne.

Like all Abraxas-sponsored affairs, this one was more an interminable procession of wealth than an actual party. There were only so many times she could be reminded that here, rather than Womanswear Designer of the Year Daphne Nott, she was the extremely eye roll-inducing Lady Nott, Countess of Arundel. If one more person called her "ma'am" Daphne would be forced to divest the contents of her aristocratic intestines on their shoes.

"I beg your pardon?" said the earl she'd so recklessly married.

"If you're going to be a politician," Daphne advised, "you're going to have to stop being the handsome weed in the corner and start being the weedy prat in the center of the room."

"Is that what I'm doing? I hadn't noticed," said Theo.

He glanced askance, smirking at her, and Daphne sighed loudly.

"You're fixating on the word 'handsome,' aren't you?"

"Nonsense, I'm simply warming up to prat."

"You're there," she assured him, to which he shamelessly laughed. "You did plenty of schmoozing when we were trying to fund Daphne Nott," she reminded him. "Half our board only agreed to their contracts because you squirreled them out from wherever they were hiding. Not to mention that a third of my creative team only signed on because you personally recruited them."

"That was easy," Theo said, shrugging. "All I had to do was tell them how good you were. Most of the time I didn't even have to open my mouth. Also, this is Draco's birthday party."

"So?"

"So I don't think people are here for me? Unless I'm mistaken," he said, casting a facetious glance of bemusement around the room. "You don't suppose that MP has my face screen-printed onto his underoos, do you? Never mind, I'll just ask," he said, launching forward until Daphne yanked him back with a groan.

"I know you're being an idiot on purpose," she said.

"Thank you," he replied grandly.

"But really, if it's too difficult for you to get out there and—"

"It's not _difficult_," Theo insisted. "It's just… inappropriate timing, that's all, but if you're trying to tell me I ought to give it up then fine, I'll just—"

"What? Nott, you belligerent muppet," Daphne said. "Is that supposed to be some kind of hysterical joke?"

"I… am not sure?" Theo said. "No? Is that the answer? You seem especially filled with vigor, so I'm going to presume it's a no."

She glared at him, and to her impatience, he broke into a broad grin.

"Just when I was thinking I'd prefer to go home to my dog," he announced, "you trot out a classic glimpse of Greengrass circa 2010. Never boring, this one," he informed a bust of King George. "I swear, it's like being caught in the world's most invigorating time loop. Tell me, my dove," he cooed to Daphne, "what have I done now? Caught you lending a pen to Michael Corner, hm?"

Daphne opened her mouth to either punch him, kiss him, or burst into tears when Draco suddenly appeared at Theo's left.

"Oh, hi," said Draco sullenly.

"Knock, knock," replied Theo.

"Who's there?" said Daphne, and when they both looked at her blankly, she shrugged. "Just kidding."

"The house is currently being fumigated," said Draco to Theo.

"I warned you about old palaces," Theo replied.

"Does this mean something?" asked Daphne, before thinking better of it. "No, never mind, don't tell me." She glanced around for Hermione, who was unfortunately well across the room. Interestingly, though, she was currently talking to Neville, who had arrived with that spectacular sporting lad of his. Daphne had never been particularly interested in football, but Cedric Diggory might very well change her mind.

"It's just _one_ essay," growled Draco. "What does he think she's going to do, annex Spain?"

"Well, if you're not going to," Theo said with a shrug.

Percy wasn't there, which was a pity. Not because Blaise was alone—he wasn't, being deep in conversation with the wife of an MP who grew up in the States—but because Daphne had really come to appreciate him, aesthetically speaking. His taste was so exquisitely understated.

"We're going to lose Padma," continued Draco, adamantly. "She's going to get sick of jumping through hoops and it's going to devastate Hermione and then I'll officially be the most useless prince who ever lived instead of just tied for first with the Greeks."

"Spiral," warned Theo, clapping Draco on the back like he was saving him from choking.

"Thank you," Draco coughed up, and grimaced. "Is he healthy enough to fight with, do you think?"

"Pistols at dawn or vicious barbs?"

"Either. Both."

"Prince Lucifer seems upright," Theo noted from afar. "Abraxas stunningly more so."

"There's certainly no need to bother my father with any of this. He's frail and powerless," Draco mumbled to himself.

"Be sure to tell him that," Theo advised.

"What about a bit of side-eye?"

"A smidge of Lady Seven-Names disdain, you mean?"

"Could work."

"Well, it _is_ your birthday."

"How is that relevant?"

"You can do what you want, it's your birthday."

"Oh." Draco brightened. "Oh," he said again.

"That being said," Theo added, "it's your birthday."

"Oh." Draco went momentarily gloomy. "Advice?"

"Give people some of what they want," Theo said.

Draco considered this at length, fingers drumming at his side.

"You're a genius," he said, and then disappeared into the crowd, making his way back to Hermione.

Theo, meanwhile, turned to Daphne. "As for you," he said spiritedly, "I'm hoping you're going to continue riling me up until I can't decide whether to chain myself to your side or defenestrate myself from that window, probably both—"

"What did that mean?" Daphne demanded, because she wasn't quite ready to play Disaster Twins. "It was nonsensical."

"Mildly," Theo permitted. "But you know Draco, he always wants to give everything to some people."

"So?"

"So instead he needs to give something to everyone. Redistribution of assets is very important."

"Which assets?"

"His grandfather wants peace. Hermione wants reassurance that she won't spend the next two decades giving into Abraxas' every whim. Padma wants whatever it is that private secretaries usually want." He shrugged. "He can give them each something, but not everything."

"How political of you," Daphne said irritably, "which brings me back t-"

"Greengrass, truly, if you don't want t-"

"Shut up, you smarmy dolt, and let me talk. It's _my_ turn," Daphne said hotly.

"Fine, if you've got something to say then just—"

"I'm saying it right now, Nott! It's _my turn_," Daphne repeated, once again ignited to the point of sticky-hot misery, which only Theo could ever do to her. "Don't you realize how much it hurts me to feel like the bad one all the time? Like I'm the selfish one, always?"

Theo opened his mouth, then stopped.

"What?" he eventually managed, looking bewildered.

"I—" She broke off. "It's such a waste, you being with me," she said, suddenly sickened with the truth of it. "You're so good, don't you understand? Can't you take a day off from being so good?"

"I am genuinely, truly mystified," he said. "Since when am I so very good?"

"You help me. You help Draco. You never ask for anything and then, even when you _do_ ask, it's always absurdly about something you can do for me. Can't you just make demands?" she said, ironically demanding. "_I'm_ the one who won't give you a baby—"

"I hardly think that's fair," Theo said, taken aback.

"—_I'm_ the one who needed all your attention and time and money—"

"Oh yes," Theo drawled, "how could I forget the time I got trapped into marriage with you, a gold-digging succubus—"

"—_I'm_ the one who broke up you and Fleur—"

"Okay, now you've crossed a line," Theo snapped, finally, at long last, becoming Theo circa 2010. "I don't know why you've decided to completely rewrite history," he said irritably, "but in case you haven't noticed, that relationship ended because I am heedlessly in love with _you_. Which for some preposterous reason I always have been," he added accusingly. "And you certainly can't take credit for my madness, Greengrass! It's mine!"

"Well, _good_," she shot back. "Because if anyone's rewritten history, it's you! You're the one who told me I was good for it!"

He stared at her vacantly. "Good for what?"

"You said 'I know you're good for it in the long run.' You idiot!" she flung at him. "You manic beanstalk. I love you," she said, suddenly ducking her head and bullying forward to fit herself neatly below his chin. "I love you so much, more than anything," she sniffed to his chest, "more than anyone, and all I've been trying to tell you is that if you want me to do for you precisely what you did for me, then I'll do it, all of it. You built the parts of my business I couldn't sort out on my own," she reminded him, glancing up once his arms had settled around her. "Hang appropriate, hang reading the room, hang it all. I will build your fucking campaign myself if I have to. I will live, eat, breathe, sleep your campaign. I will talk you up to every eligible voter in Britain from now until the rapture if you'll just _let it be my turn_. Don't you understand?"

She could feel the weight of her own nonsense, the hysteria of her love, the way she could never reasonably hold it. For him, she never could.

"You're an absolute lunatic," he told her.

"I know," she sighed. "But I'm very pretty."

"True."

"And people seem to like me."

"Heaven knows why."

"And more importantly, I know you like no one else knows you," Daphne said fiercely. "So either they will love you as I love you or I will make them sorry with my bare hands."

"Well, sweetheart," Theo replied, "that's very generous of you."

She glared at him, and his irreverent smirk broadened.

"For what it's worth, it doesn't take from me to give to you," he said. "And contrary to whatever your little wilds may have you believe, there's nothing missing from my life."

"I know." But sometimes she doubted it.

He lifted her chin with a finger, half-smiling. "If we only get what we want most in this life, then I got everything I needed the day I met you," he said. "Everything else is just a matter of banalities."

"Like fair wages and human rights?"

"Precisely." He kissed her forehead. "And I'm sorry I didn't realize what you were trying to do. I should have seen it sooner."

"It's really no surprise you didn't. You've always been incredibly thick."

"Darling, please," he said, turning to rasp in her ear, "save the pillowtalk. People can see."

She held him tightly, wishing she could summon the strength to channel everything she felt into a single, rib-crushing gesture.

"You're an idiot and I adore you," she whispered.

Across the room, Draco must have given Hermione the something she wanted, because she was smiling up at him now, one hand on the baby bump that she still stubbornly refused to reveal. Not even Theo knew the gender, which had been infuriating to Daphne until she'd finally decided there was no reason not to buy precious little pink things anyway. Likewise, she'd begun making Gwen some less-frilly tartan headbands, mostly because the little thing had absolutely no hair.

Speaking of Gwen, it was quite fun having her around, though Astoria had been hinting at finding her own place quite soon. Which, on the one hand, would mean a quieter house, which would be an immense relief, as living with a baby had further cemented Daphne's desire to be an aunt and not a mother. On the other, though, it would mean a quieter house, which for the time being seemed a bit tragic. It might be quite lonely to come home and no longer find her sister watching dreadful television on the sofa or rearranging the furniture in her living room. It was great fun and a terrible indecency to have a house so filled with noise, for which every moment alone with Theo was now a sacrament itself. Not that she was complaining.

Theo, meanwhile, was thinking how terrifically strange it was to love such a mercurial woman, and to be loved so savagely in return. Across the room, his own father was glowering (they were, as usual, careful to occupy separate hemispheres of any given space) and for the first time in living memory, Theo could simply feel sorry for him instead of angry with him. That was the effect of being loved by Daphne Greengrass. It meant that everyone forced to live without her was now pitiable, an urchin of misfortune. Not for the first time or the last, Theo would think: my home, my family, is you.

"Any other grievances to row about?" he asked her. "It's what our 2010 selves would do, I imagine."

"They'd also sleep alone, like idiots," she replied, her fingers drifting idly out of sight. "And while 2010 Theo was probably very good, he didn't have your stamina."

"Greengrass, people can see," Theo reminded her.

"Then let them look," Daphne replied, with a rousing kiss that made him glad once again to be the weedy fellow in the corner, at least for right now.

* * *

_**Dudley Dursley**__, host of The Dursley Experience, terrible tosser, not yer mum's youtuber  
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_.__** RitaSkeeter**_'_s latest crusade against __** GilderoyLockhartOfficial**_ _only confirms the most oppressed minority is MEN. hypocrite hermione granger surely in agreement… of course u 'support' refugees… nvm your palaces… & ur 3m quid baby shower…. _

_11:21 PM - 30 Jun 2020  
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* * *

_1 July 2020  
Kensington Palace, London, England_

"Reviews are in," Percy said, poking his head into Padma's office.

"Are they? ASTORIA," she barked, prompting Percy to wince, and then Astoria manifested, dragging Percy in from the doorway as she took the seat across from Padma.

"Well?" demanded Astoria, apparently from Percy. Padma was still busy scrolling.

"It's nothing revolutionary," Percy said. "The people you'd expect to love it do, while the people you'd expect not to don't."

"Anything about Hermione's introduction?"

"Just that it doesn't have the impact of actually being included in the collection," Percy said.

"That's not the same thing as _no_ impact," Astoria said, uncharacteristically impatient, though that was understandable. Aside from the odd speech now and then, Hermione's inclusion in this particular book was the biggest concession the Palace had made thus far.

The year's most notorious strange bedfellows were Luna Lovegood and Rita Skeeter, two diametrically opposed journalists who'd mysteriously aligned for a timely collaboration (unknown how they'd even been introduced, but Hermione seemed for whatever reason to quietly suspect the Duchess of Grimmauld). The book was called _The Men Who Made Me: Cautionary Tales from Madwomen, B*tches, and Shrews_, and was a collection of essays for which Hermione had been barred (any submission of hers would by necessity involve either her common past or her royal present, which were ruled equally unacceptable by the Palace) though she had been permitted to write the book's forward. Petunia Dursley, included presumably not for Lovegoodian legitimacy but for Skeeterific shock value, had written not about her divorce, but about her sister Lily—this being the most buzzed about essay in the collection, although Lady Bellatrix Lestrange had also submitted a previously unpublished excerpt about her adolescence. There was also the book's foundational essay from Marietta Edgecombe about the aftershocks of her toxic affair with Gilderoy Lockhart, which would probably not ruin his career. His reputation would forever be stained by anyone who read it—but that, as Marietta had written with surprising gravitas, was precisely the point. His reputation would be stained. By contrast, only her life was ruined.

Ultimately, the balance of Luna Lovegood's earnestness with Rita Skeeter's sensationalism created a riveting, almost thriller-esque pacing, with a profound sense of empathy pervasive throughout. Most of the stories were from female professionals in male-dominated industries; some names were better known than others, like the singer Lily Moon or the Wimbledon champion Angelina Johnson, but each story was powerful for its universal resonance. There were essays about catcalling, about religion, about being prematurely sexualized or forcefully virginalized, about the first time each woman had experienced the acute awareness of being too much or too little or both.

The first time Padma had read it, back when Rita Skeeter had first approached the offices for a contribution from Hermione, she had cried. The second time, after Hermione's introduction had been written, she'd cried twice.

Astoria had rung Padma immediately after she'd finished the advanced reader copy, similarly moved. "Hermione's essay would have been incredible," she said. "I wish she'd been able to submit one as Penelope or something."

"Well, at least this way her name's on it, which means more people will see it than not," Padma said. "And anyway, she's right, what she said in the forward. That it's not about any one woman, but the collective story of womanhood that all our stories tell."

"Yes, but _still_," Astoria sighed. "We only get what, one week of revenge? Two? And then they'll just forget it even existed once it's gone from Twitter's attention span."

"Is it revenge?"

"Isn't it?" Astoria said, then grumbled. "Okay, it's not, but still, it is."

"And you want that?" Padma asked knowingly. "Revenge?"

Astoria was quiet for a long time.

"I don't think Alex is alone," she muttered eventually. "I think there's plenty of women who'll tell him that I'm the horrible one who left him for no reason, and I think it's what he wants to hear, so he'll believe it. I think he's got someone in bed with him right now, and it just… breaks my heart, you know? He just keeps breaking my heart."

"I know," Padma said.

Astoria exhaled in a burst of something, maybe frustration. "Well, look, anyway the point is—"

"No," Padma said. "Don't push it away."

"There's no reason t-"

"Yes, there is reason to. The reason is you feel it and your feelings are valid."

"My feelings are pointless. Impractical. I'm the one who left."

Padma didn't say anything, because Astoria was clever enough to know she was shamelessly rationalizing.

"Fine," Astoria grumbled in response to Padma's tacit scolding. "Fine, I miss being his wife. I miss watching people be jealous of me for being the one he married. I miss sex with him. God, I miss sex with him. I miss the way he looked at me, when he looked at me." She was quiet again. "I miss how nice he was to me," she added. "You know how when men are being nice, they're _so_ nice? And then when they're not, they're so, so cruel."

"Yes," Padma said. "I'm familiar."

"I miss being the bright star in his universe." Astoria sighed again. "I miss being special to him. And I miss sex with him."

"You said that one, I think."

"Because I miss it _so much_."

"Well," Padma said. "You'll have sex again. And you'll be special to someone again. You're already special to so many people and sex… it's easy to come by. Easier than you think. And as for revenge—" She trailed off, chewing your lip. "For what it's worth, I don't think there will ever be another you for him. You'll probably haunt him."

"You think?"

"Oh, god yes, absolutely. You're officially the one thing he can never have. He'll always, always want you."

"True," Astoria said.

"His punishment for every mistake he made is a lifetime without you," Padma said. "Of trying and failing to fill the void you left, which he never will. Because he can't."

"Well, that's kind of sad. I don't want him to be miserable."

"You don't?"

"Not forever." Astoria laughed. "Just for like, a solid year."

"Well, revenge is messy business," Padma said. "In the meantime, might as well be happy. Or try to be."

"You think I'm not?"

"You miss him. Your marriage just ended, that's… you know, that's normal."

"No, Padma, I—"

Astoria broke off, laughing for a second, and Padma blinked.

"Padma," Astoria said again. "I'm on the phone with you. I've got my daughter sleeping in my arms and when my sister gets home, we're watching _Clueless_ for probably the four hundredth time. I'm so fucking happy it's obscene."

Padma blinked. "But you said—"

"I miss parts of Alex, yes, of course. Of course. Right now that's just how it goes—grief or whatever it is. But when I don't feel like that anymore," Astoria said, "I'm going to ask you out for dinner. And I'm going to put on my tartiest frock and my most irresistible lipstick, and I'm going to drink a little too much wine. Not a sloppy amount," she added. "Just enough that you have to suggest I come home with you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," Astoria said.

"Oh," Padma said again, "well, okay," which for the time being was all she could conceivably manage.

Since then, things had been beautifully coltish and awkward the way they always were when one was circling one's inadvisable crush all day, every day. There was nothing like lust to render Padma's menial tasks like trying not to spill yogurt on her skirt or wearing a decent amount of mascara into crucial, life-altering endeavors, just as there was a keen, superhuman extension to her senses; the way she could manufacture opportunities for accidental touches or occasionally stand close enough to know Astoria could smell her perfume. She savored it, the high of being aware that it was mutual, whatever it was.

Was there anything in life more invigorating than wanting? Padma was in no rush to arrive anywhere when the alternative was so excruciatingly sweet, and in the meantime their friendship had only deepened. If Astoria was happy, then Padma, by comparison, was reckless with joy.

"Well," Padma said, finally reading aloud from her screen, "the _New York Times_ reviewer seems to think the men in the book are too one-dimensional, so there's that."

"What's his name?" asked Astoria.

"Mark," said Padma.

"Explains it," Astoria said flippantly, holding Padma's gaze just a smidge too long. (She was clearly bilingual in flirting if not everything else.)

"Favorable reviews from _Women's Weekly_ and _Vogue_," Percy pointed out, either failing to notice or politely ignoring them. Never clear which was which. "It's also shortlisted for best of the year in nonfiction."

"Did you read it?" Astoria asked him.

"Of course," he said, looking hurt she'd presumed that he hadn't. "It's very cleverly curated. And I have to say, it's a bit easier to understand the disruptive quality of masculinity when it's delivered in this format, isn't it? Every time a man showed up in a young girl's life I wanted very urgently for him to leave."

"Congratulations Percy, you understand us," said Padma. "That's all there is to the cult of femininity, really. Just a lot of 'I wish this man would leave' and also the song _I Love It_ by Icona Pop."

"She's teasing, but she's right," Astoria said, nudging Padma's foot under the desk before rising to her feet. "Anyway, I'd better go pick out something for Hermione's next speech. Her last, hopefully," she added, as they shared a conspiratorial grimace. "She really ought to be on maternity leave by now."

"Well, you've met her. It's no surprise she isn't. Oh, and nothing expensive or designer," Padma said, recalling that she'd made a note to herself about the mixed response to Hermione's most recent appearances. "She's getting a lot of flack for it, especially right now."

"But I thought I'd choose a designer of color." Astoria frowned. "I mean between advocacy or affordability, I would think the former for this, right?"

"Ah. Well." Padma considered it. "Diplomatic dressing can only go so far. Percy, thoughts?"

"They'll call her a hypocrite whatever she does," Percy said. "The monarchy is what it is whether she spends the money or not. Might as well draw attention to a worthy cause and make sure the picture circulates."

"True," Padma sighed. "The issue of her wealth is unavoidable. We can't pretend she's just a normal woman—certainly not if what she's saying is supposed to have weight. Right, go with Percy's call," she said with a nod of confirmation to Astoria. "Your instincts are good."

"Well, a second opinion never hurts. I'll be right back with some suggestions," said Astoria, and then she was gone.

Percy, meanwhile, rose to his feet, pausing by Padma's door and then closing it.

"The offer," he said in a low voice. "I know you got one. So does Snape, and therefore so does His Highness."

"Just call him Draco," Padma said with an exasperated roll of her eyes, but Percy was apparently in no mood to argue.

"If it's a better offer, take it," he told her. "For as long as His Majesty is alive, this office will hit every obstacle the senior courtiers can think of. You'll spend the next decade or more slamming your head into a brick wall of protocol and Firm politics, and you and I both know you're capable of more than that."

Padma leaned back against her chair. "I want to stay with Hermione. There won't be limits on what I can care about for as long as I work with her."

"Yes. I know. But you know the situation." Percy gave her a pinched look, as if he already regretted bringing it up. "The more Draco rebels against the King, the more Hermione will be punished for it. No matter how hard you push, they will only push back until they've pushed you into the ground. Maybe you can come back someday," he suggested, "when you've had your fill of being a thriving Executive Director, or at least had a taste of what it's like to actually have some control, but for now—"

"I'm not going." Padma crossed her arms over her chest.

Percy stared at her for a second, then sighed. "Why? Because you're happy here?"

"Yes."

"Will that last? You're already restless."

"Part of the job. I can get past it."

"But why should you?"

"Percy." Padma leaned forward. "They pay me well. They give me every reason to stay loyal. For as long as I stay with the Waleses, I don't need to choose my battles. Not when they give me permission to fight them all."

"Will you still be willing to fight them all in a year? In five? Ten? Twenty? Abraxas shows no signs of slowing down, and god knows the Duke of Norfolk will outlive us all—"

"Do I look frightened?" Padma shot back.

Percy sighed, rubbing his temples, and for a second she thought further argument was coming until she realized he was laughing, albeit in a uniquely Percy way.

"Good," he said, and opened her office door, leaving Padma to call out after him.

"That's it? 'Good,' end of lecture?"

"Well, I just thought someone ought to tell you it's a mad idea to turn the offer down," he said, pausing in the door frame. "It seemed like I'd regret saying nothing if I found out you were miserable and wished someone had told you to go. But obviously I'd rather you stayed right where you are," he said. "Your time will come, Patil. No one with your patience deserves any less."

"Alright, that's enough from you, Weasley." He had no idea how much she needed him to be right about that, but it was sweet nonetheless. "Is this weekend one of Audrey's?"

"Yes." His smile faltered at the reminder.

"Lonely?"

"A bit."

"Margaritas?"

"Christ." He sighed. "Yes alright, fine."

"You're the guvnah," Padma said, tossing him an air kiss.

"Don't," he said with a wince, and left.

Percy was gone for only a matter of minutes before Astoria came back, this time with some renderings in hand. "Have you ever heard of Melibea Warbeck?" she asked, gaze fixed on her iPad. "Mother's Celestina, the singer. Her line's on the newer side but very strong, and she casts the most diverse models I've ever seen on the runway—size inclusive, too. If we bought something from her ready-to-wear collection it won't be _so_ tone deaf. Something like this we could just have altered to fit the baby bump."

Padma rose to her feet, glancing over Astoria's screen, and became distinctly aware that someone else was now playing the stand-too-close game.

"Want to come over for drinks with Percy this weekend?" she asked while Astoria scrolled through Melibea Warbeck's lookbook. Moments like this, when they were close enough to touch, Padma had the faintest idea they would fit together in perfect symmetry someday.

"Drinks? How fascinatingly adult," said Astoria drily. "All I've done lately is infant swaddling and nursery rhymes."

"We could do that too, if you wind up missing it. No need to be exclusively grown-up."

"Oh, I'm not ruling it out. Though we could always be grown-ups in your bed," murmured Astoria.

At precisely that moment, Padma realized that Astoria had undone one of the buttons on her blouse, leaving her with a very clear view of precisely what she might do with her weekend if all the stars aligned. Which she hoped they would.

"I'm genuinely not sure how Percy would respond to that," Padma said.

Unexpectedly, Astoria burst into laughter, raucous and unladylike and loud, and Padma, too, could feel her face start to hurt almost immediately, laughter ricocheting around in her chest to burn in her abs, heating her cheeks.

She would not know that it was the hardest Astoria had laughed since the last time Padma had made her laugh like that, just as she would not know how many times Astoria had been deprived of that kind of laughter. Padma Patil would never know the way she had introduced Astoria Greengrass Poliakoff to the unique sensation of laughing so hard her bladder strained. And of course, neither of them could know yet that Astoria would eventually teach her daughter Gwen to laugh like that, so that one day, when Gwen was out with a boy at sixteen, he would tell her not to laugh so loudly in public and she'd throw her smoothie in his face, because the last time she checked her joy was not something for him to police her with. She would come home in a huff and say you will not _believe_ what that bastard Charlie did to me today and Astoria would say, conspiratorially, tell me, and thus mother and daughter would conspire about where the hell men got off making rules about what could or couldn't be done.

But for now, Astoria clutched at Padma's hand, wiping tears of hysteria from her eyes until Snape popped his head into the office.

"What's this?" he said, glancing between them.

"Nothing," Padma managed. "Just… a bit of afternoon sillies, that's all."

"Ah," Snape said in a tone of _women_, and then disappeared down the hall.

"There will be no foolish giggling or silly vulgarities in this office," Astoria whispered to Padma in Snape's monotone, prompting her to shake with laughter all the more.

* * *

_**BRITISH VOGUE**__, The Official Vogue UK Twitter Page  
__** BritishVogue**_

_Fresh from the launch of the Royals' new campaign supporting artists of color, Hermione Granger wore a stunning Melibea Warbeck frock to address the crowd: [Article title: Princess Hermione goes floral for summer.]_

_2:25 PM - 1 Jul 2020  
__**84**_ _Retweets __**32K**_ _Likes_

* * *

_5 Jul 2020  
San Francisco, California, USA_

"Is that a drink in your hand?" Blaise asked, amused.

"What? Oh," Percy said, cataloguing his beverage with sudden surprise, as if he'd been unaware he had one. "Well, Will's now in the habit of drinking everything out of champagne flutes. Technically he wanted a goblet, but I told him one couldn't simply _buy_ goblets."

"No, of course not," Blaise agreed, adjusting his handle on his phone screen. "They must, without exception, be won."

"Right. And thankfully Hortense and I are on the same side of this issue, though she is very much the reason he wants one."

"Does it worry you to be raising a child whose style icon is Hortense?"

"I'm not sure Will has a 'style icon,' but if he does, wouldn't it be worse for it to be Ned?"

Blaise shuddered. "Tell that boy rugby stripes are not a look."

"He'll learn eventually. Probably right around his first teen breakup."

"Christ, imagine the poor thing who gets taken in by Ned. By Ned!" Blaise scoffed. "The boy's a tasteless menace."

"I'll be sure to tell him that the moment he arrives," Percy said, taking a sip from his glass.

Wistfully, Blaise caught the stream of high noon sun from Percy's windows; the way it glinted from the champagne glass and fogged up the camera view with an occasional too-bright sheen. Of course London would cast aside its signature gloom for this, a perfect glimpse of utter homesickness.

"You do look very cool," Blaise said, obscuring the longing from his tone, or so he hoped.

Likely not, given Percy's look in return. "What time is it there?"

"Ah, umm… four," Blaise said, grimacing as he registered the time. "The fireworks didn't stop until sometime after midnight."

"Can't believe you haven't turned and left already. What do the other expats do on the anniversary of our most senseless loss, exactly?"

"Believe me, we don't want any part in this. The bridge is nice, but the Bagman of it all is distressingly palpable."

"Even in San Francisco?"

"Not here so much. But the airport…"

"Oh no."

Blaise sighed theatrically. "There was a man on the plane in one of those red hats. You know the ones."

"God, no."

"I kept thinking well, if the plane goes down, at least the hat goes down too."

Percy laughed. "A noble sacrifice."

"I am nothing if not noble."

"Don't see how I keep forgetting." Percy paused, staring off into something that Blaise figured was probably the garden.

"Do you miss me?" Blaise said, inadvisably, and Percy's contemplative expression broke out into a crooked smile.

"You're shameless," he said, returning his attention to Blaise.

"Yes, I know." Blaise tossed one arm over his head, sighing. "It hasn't quite sunk in yet."

"No. Not for me either." Percy chewed his lip, leaning back in his seat at what Blaise confirmed to be the kitchen island. "How is everyone else handling it?"

"In a normal way, I assume." A thought came to Blaise with a smile. "I suppose it says a lot that I'm not especially worried about any of them falling to pieces in my absence."

"Hermione will miss you. She's very responsive to your brand of trickery."

"That's true," Blaise acknowledged with a dry laugh. "And I do wish I'd been able to stay long enough for the birth. I thought possibly all this work she's insisting on doing might mean it'd show up early just to force her to slow down, but alas, no."

Hermione's due date was in August: Virgo season, right on the cusp, which Blaise felt was precarious. Not that they needed another Virgo, but they certainly did _not_ need another well-coiffed Leo.

"She's officially on maternity leave now," Percy said.

"Ah, so miracles do happen," Blaise said, and Percy chuckled.

In the comforting silence that followed, Blaise thought back to his goodbye party, which now seemed impossibly distant despite the passage of a mere day or so. They had all seemed determined to pretend they were sending him off on something brief, like a holiday, which felt like a reasonable choice at the time. They didn't really even say goodbye, adding that they'd be Skyping so often they'd hardly notice his absence, and besides, he could easily continue arbitrating points remotely. They'd hugged and pretended not to be teary and in the end, they'd all trickled off into the night, back to their homes, to their families, and to their lives.

Now, though, Blaise wished he had done something a bit more momentous. He supposed he'd always thought himself well-suited to adventure, but the truth was he had never actually been to many places in his life. Certainly not for extended periods of time, and for half a lifetime, he'd never been anywhere without at least one Bad Lad at his side. True, Tracey was with him, and in the next room—she, he hoped, was managing to overcome jet lag better than he was, though her nausea kept her on something of a rigid clock irrespective of time zones—but it wouldn't be the same. They'd be missing different people, different things, and besides, Tracey already had a date lined up for later that week. Evidently someone she'd studied abroad with was some sort of successful engineering-type now who didn't mind the circumstances of her gestational state. Blaise, to his credit, was genuinely, enthusiastically pleased for her, though the reminder that he would be alone here was a bit of a thud to his psyche.

To his surprise, it had been Draco who was the most emotional on departure. "You know Theo's useless on a motorbike," he'd said, looking mournful. "And I suppose I've always thought of you as the rational one in the group."

"My god," said Blaise with a shudder, "how tragic for all of us."

"I know." Draco smiled thinly. "I don't know if I remember how to exist without you? It's been rather a long time since I've had to."

"I'll be in America, not dead."

"I know, I know."

"They do have the internet there, or so I'm told."

"Yes, I know—"

"I'm also told they _have_ vaccines, although whether they're using them—"

"I just have a very odd feeling," Draco interrupted with a grimace, which was one of those odd, nonsensical things that Draco occasionally laid in Blaise's lap for purposes of analysis.

"And this feeling is?" prompted Blaise.

"I don't know. I'm not sure." Draco frowned his Pensive Prince frown. "My father's healthy, isn't he? The whole situation with my grandfather's made me concerned he's not getting enough exercise," he sighed.

"First of all, we all know the Prince of Darkness made a deal with demons long ago," Blaise said. "And secondly he just bought his own motorbike, so I'd say he's doing fine."

"Yes, but he's on blood thinners," Draco said, frettingly. "And Helen says there's some risk for clotting after all the heart problems he's had—"

"I'm nearly positive what Helen _actually_ said was 'Draco I'm a doctor of teeth and you need to get off the internet,' but sure," said Blaise graciously, "you make a valid point, at least about all the men of your father's age who _aren't_ being vigilantly watched by the finest doctors in the United Kingdom."

Draco sighed again, conceding this time, or perhaps something near it. "I know you're right, I do, but that's just it. What am I supposed to do if something terrible happens without you?" He deflated a little. "I feel as if you leaving is a bit like losing some very crucial bit of myself. My… hope, or something."

"Nonsense," Blaise scoffed. "Me, hopeful?"

Draco fixed him with a steady look of certainty. "Yes," he said. "Yes, hopeful is the one thing you've always been, if you think about it. We all want your approval, not because the points are so very important to us—"

"Minus two for that, but go on," said Blaise.

"—but because you're all our better natures rolled into one." Draco brightened at the possibility of having solved it. "That's it, that's what feels so very terrifying—the idea that if you're gone, then all the brightness for all of us will wane, and then we'll have to fumble around in the dark for a bit until we can manage again."

"Not true," said Blaise, aching because he wanted it to be true, because he was desperate to believe that this was what he truly was: not the fuck-up who'd nearly torn them apart or the last to find proper commitment or the unfinished story they all secretly felt sorry for, but someone they looked to for light. It was too good, too sweet to hope for—ironically cementing the fact that if anyone was hopeful, it wasn't him—and in response, Draco hadn't said anything, merely laying a hand on his shoulder in solidarity. In the acknowledgement of everything they wouldn't say aloud.

It was, in a way, its own form of peace. The kind that begins a journey, or ends one.

"Blaise," said Percy.

Blaise blinked, drawn back to the present. "Hm?"

"I do miss you," Percy said.

Unexpectedly, their goodbye had been the easiest, maybe because Percy was so adult and well-adjusted that he could actually say goodbye without it severing a piece of his soul. Percy had come to the party and left early, begging off with Will in tow, and then he'd returned at an ungodly hour like this one to sit beside Blaise and watch the sun come up over the Thames. They'd said very little and done nothing remotely sexual, merely starting a day together that would end with an ocean between them.

"You changed me," Blaise had said.

It wasn't such a wild claim. Neville had changed him, too, and Tracey, and Draco and Hermione and Theo and Daphne and Pansy and Harry. They'd each left their mark on him, and on each other. That was the thing Blaise had laughed at when he'd said goodbye to Neville, which had been difficult to explain at the time. Neville had suspected (as Neville was wont to do) that it was Blaise who'd insisted on his invitation to Draco's birthday or to Fleur's wedding. But no, Blaise assured him, it was not Blaise, but Neville himself—he'd embedded himself in all of them, all on his own. They all did. This was life: the embedding into other people, the scales of others that came to cover our fragile mortal bones. "You changed me" could be said to almost anyone and it would be wholly, mundanely true.

But not like this.

At the time Percy had closed his eyes, and a morning bluster had sent a lock of auburn tumbling onto his forehead. "Don't change too much," he said. "Or keep changing, if you want." He reached blindly for Blaise's hand, smoothing a thumb over each of his knuckles. "If you do, I'll just change with you."

Blaise didn't doubt it. He wasn't filled with that, doubt, much anymore.

He looked at Percy's face on the screen and was filled with something he'd always attributed to Hermione. Care, he supposed. She had so very much of it to spare—no, not quite that. It wasn't volume but depth. She could care more deeply than the rest of them. Or possibly she was just shameless with it, her love, and that was why the tabloids hated her so much. They couldn't understand how one person could face the ugliness of their experience and the bitterness of their feelings and the perversity of their desires and still walk around with so much shine.

"I'll be back soon," he'd said to her, ringing her from the airport. "You know that, right? It'll fly by. What's a year, anyway?"

"Speak for yourself," she grumbled, because evidently being almost eight months pregnant was not her most comfortable state. (Blaise noted that for when Tracey inevitably arrived there, which gave him a thrilling mix of both ecstasy and dread.) "But for what it's worth, I'm not worried about you," she added.

"You're not?"

"Of course not."

"You're suddenly no longer worried I'll end up alone?"

"I've matured or something. And anyway, how could you possibly be alone? We'll be here smothering you to death."

"True."

"Write me," she said, groaning again as she adjusted herself. "Long letters. Truly, Homerically long ones, do you hear me? Every detail, every feeling, every mad, bad thought. I want to hear all of it. If you think well, surely no one will care about this—write it down, send it to me. I want it."

"You're a lunatic," Blaise said fondly.

"I learned from the best," she replied.

At the sound of a keycard entering the lock, Blaise tore his thoughts away.

"Are you awake?" asked Tracey, who looked exhausted. Blaise patted the spot on the bed next to him and she curled up on her side, resting her head in his abdomen. "Hi Percy," she said sleepily, closing her eyes.

"Hi Tracey," Percy said, and then smiled. "I can leave you to try and get some sleep, if you want. Ned'll be here any moment."

Blaise hated to miss it. Actually, Will was why he'd chosen to come along with Tracey in the first place. Because it had not taken Blaise very long to notice that even a moment of a child's life—even the insignificant ones, like watching them form an odd human connection with a mad, colorblind, nine-year-old menace—was fleeting and marvelous. Precious and pure.

"Tell Will I miss him," Blaise said, "and that anytime he does something athletic, he can tell me about it instead of you."

"I can't imagine how he wouldn't already know that, but noted."

"And remember not to salt the fontina sauce so aggressively next time."

"That was one time. And it was hardly aggressive."

"Be safe."

"Are you my mother?"

"Wash behind the ears."

"Very funny."

"Remember to stop at stop lights."

"Blaise. I'm older than you."

"Don't accept sweets from strangers."

"If someone gives me a chocolate I'm taking it, Blaise, end of story—"

"Don't fall in love without me."

"Blaise." Percy's smile quirked. "Do you miss me?"

"Yes."

"A lot?"

"Yes."

"Insufferably?"

"A bit."

"Good." Percy looked away at the sound of a knock. "Well, I'm here," he said, looking back down at Blaise. "Whenever you want me."

"Alright. Bye, then."

"Talk soon, Blaise." And then he was gone.

Blaise glanced down at Tracey, brushing her hair back from her cheek.

"You can put something on the television if you like," she murmured, eyes still closed.

"No, that's alright," Blaise said, pulling up his email app. "You comfortable?"

"Yes."

Not for long, he thought, and smiled at the promise of it. The exquisite discomfort of growth.

_Dear Hermione,_ he wrote,

_Some immediate thoughts: LOATHE that I can't simply burrow in with the effervescent H&D, though tell them I'm happy to water the plants for as long as we've swapped sides of the Atlantic. DISLIKE fireworks. The bridge lights up so that's fun. Missing tea. Am aware they have it here but IT'S NOT THE SAME. _

He looked out the window, contemplating whatever this would make of him. What would he be next, if he could be anything? Happy, he supposed, which he was surprised to find that he already was, and therefore it needn't be much of a burden to keep going.

_Will try to make America great whilst I am here,_ he said, and hit send, closing his eyes and drifting back to sleep.

* * *

_**DAILY PROPHET**__, The UK's Top Source for Breaking News  
__** ProphetOnline**_

_The Duke of Malfoy is reportedly in hospital for routine tests today. Sources say the visit was just 'precautionary'—says Palace source, 'the Duke was thrilled to celebrate the birthday of the Prince of Wales and is determined to remain in good health for the birth of his grandchild!'_

_3:25 PM - 15 Aug 2020  
__**101**_ _Retweets __**429K**_ _Likes_

* * *

_1 September 2020  
Buckingham Palace, London, England_

Draco had been uncharacteristically certain the baby would come early. Perhaps it was merely an extreme dose of optimism (read: it was) but given that Draco had been especially on edge since Blaise's departure in July, he'd been certain it would arrive too early for the express purpose of shocking them all. Was not life a series of ironies? A baby that took its time coming into being would _obviously_ then proceed to catapult itself into the world with graceless fervor, and thus fill their lives with the glorious impatience of its kind.

But the first contractions were false alarms, as were the second, and nearly two weeks after Hermione's due date, the doctor had decided it would be best to schedule a day to induce.

"This wee lamb of yours happens to be very pleased precisely where they are," said Dr Pomfrey cheerfully. "Not a problem, it's not abnormal. But you'll have to vacate before the fourth of September or else start paying rent," she said to Hermione's uterus, which was apparently meant to be funny, although Draco could not quite manage to laugh.

He'd been something of a wreck these days, not only because he was about to become a father but also because his job currently held little hope of promotion and his quarterly reviews were not exactly good. Apparently straddling the line between tradition and modernism was not the successful balancing act he might have hoped, and every attempt he made in one direction was not quite enough to appease either side. Stand against racism, xenophobia, and prejudice? Check! Only he was a prince of England, a country famously Not Nice to anything suitably "other," and therefore had no right to stand on his throne of supremacy and gawk. Support women? Check! Only he was a prince of England, famously Not Nice to women and therefore a product of hypocrisy, carrying the shame of generations who, coincidentally, were the ones who put him on the gawking throne to begin with. The same could be said for LGBTQIA activism, for human rights, for ethical production and labor laws and sustainability and global economics. Also, how dare he break with tradition and comment at all, on any of it? This wasn't what was done, it wasn't his place, and my god was that a pop of color on his suit? So on and so forth, END SCENE.

It was no wonder his grandfather wanted to keep to what had always worked, only it wasn't working anymore. The diagnosis was failing. It wasn't the monarchy that had changed, but the world.

Hermione, meanwhile, was swollen and uncomfortable for obvious reasons, irritable with what reportedly felt like constant gastrointestinal distress and dismayed by her inability to distract herself with work. Although Draco felt sure he would ultimately remember it as a happy time for them both, he couldn't help focusing on the sweat of it all, the little winces she tried to hide and the reports from Snape: not good again this week, Your Highness. The family business was struggling to stay afloat, much less stay a family.

"It's always something," Lucius had said, which was easy for Lucius to say, because he had a heart that couldn't handle this sort of thing and therefore Draco was careful not to mention the vast majority of it. His father's test results had been normalish, indicating that watchfulness and blood thinners were still necessary but that changes in diet, exercise, and no longer being the heir to the throne were going effectively well. "At the rate you're going, you'll be forced to abscond to your country house a solid decade before I did."

"Please don't prescribe fresh air and the sea," Draco said forlornly.

"Draco, listen to me. You're healthy, you're young, and you're about to have a child," Lucius told him. "Stop fussing."

"Me, fussing? All you did for thirty years was fuss!"

"And not for nothing, apparently," Lucius said drily. "Look at you, you're well on your way to being your own child's satanic figure. What will they call you, do you think? Since Prince of Darkness is taken," he mused.

"That," Draco said with blistering shock, "is the cruelest thing you've ever said to me."

"Well, fair enough, since you came in here to tell me I'm probably going to die at any moment," Lucius countered, "which was not especially ideal. You're aware it's eight in the morning, aren't you?"

Draco fell onto the sofa with a grimace. "So is everything actually fine, then?"

"Everything is actually fine," Lucius confirmed. "But you're a man about to see the birth of his first child. You're not the first person to start melting into the floors."

"Don't tell Mother."

"She already knows."

"What? How?"

"She's your mother. She knows everything."

"That seems unfair."

"It is," Lucius agreed, "deeply."

"And your advice is to calm down?"

"Yes."

"That's terrible advice."

"Yes, I know."

"They nearly made you king and that's your advice?"

"Yes," said Lucius, "and again, thank you for handling this with such grace."

"It's absurdly unfair that out of everyone, _you_ should get to be well-adjusted," grumbled Draco. "You tried to interfere with my relationship! You spied on me for the entirety of my schooling! For god's sake, you once tackled me in a rage!"

"Tea?" asked Lucius.

Draco, again, groaned. "I need a distraction."

"Aside from statecraft?"

"God, yes."

"Well, Hermione's parents are here, aren't they? Invite them over." Lucius rose to his feet. "I'll go tell your mother the good news."

"The what?" Draco echoed, sitting up with astonishment. "What _good_ news?"

"She loves a party," Lucius said simply, exiting the room. "You know this."

Which was the beginning of how Draco came to be in a room with his wife, his parents, his grandfather, his wife's parents, his best friend and cousin and their wives and dog and children, and a spread of breakfast foods his wife did not want to look at, smell, or touch. She'd been feeling poorly all morning, and now, of course, this.

"Is it Saturday yet?" Hermione gloomed privately to Draco, whose chest hurt with sympathy, which was hopefully not the beginning of a heart attack, at which point he wondered which side it was that went numb before cardiac arrest and panicked when he couldn't remember. Then he remembered he needed to calm down, or else his child would hate him. (Unfortunately these were now the only two foreseeable options.)

"Nearly," he reminded her, squeezing her hand. "Very nearly."

"I know I'm not technically allowed to announce to anyone that I'm going to the bathroom, but I just need you to know this is the fourth time since we arrived," she said, trying and failing to launch herself upwards from the cushions until he sprang up to assist her. "Can we facetime Blaise when I get back? I vindictively want to hear more about Tracey's constant vomiting. Maybe that will get you out," she added irritably to her bump.

"Of course," Draco said, stifling a laugh. "Happy to."

"Good." She gave him a pitiful look at the prospect of waddling to the toilet, and this time, he laughed outright. "Don't," she wailed softly, though he could tell it was one of the safer emotions, and thankfully not genuine distress.

"I love you very much for doing this," he reminded her.

"What, peeing?"

"Yes," he said gravely.

"You're gross." She kissed him. "Bye."

Then she toddled elsewhere, joined by a surprisingly sympathetic Pansy, and her seat on the sofa was filled.

"You're melting," noted Helen.

"My father said the same thing," Draco groaned. "You realize that's not the traditional use of the phrase, don't you?"

"It's an apt description," she said, shrugging. "David was the same way."

"Was he? Hard to believe. He's so very steady."

"That only happens _after _you keep a human child alive for three decades," Helen advised.

"So will it get easier, then?"

"Absolutely not," Helen scoffed, and then the sofa shifted as they were joined on Draco's other side. "Oh no," Helen said, nearly dropping her scone. "Is there protocol for this?"

"None that matters," Abraxas assured her, sparing a smile for Draco. "Though you're welcome to make an offering if you like."

"Like a tithe?"

"Not since the seventies."

"Well, that's a relief." Helen smiled. "So, will you be called… Great-Grandfather?"

"I think that's perhaps a mouthful for a small baby," Abraxas said thoughtfully. "Even one with such brilliance in its genes."

Draco, who never quite knew what to say to his grandfather these days, said nothing.

"I must say, though, I never expected to have to wonder about it," Abraxas added. "I hardly even knew my own grandfather, so this is… new for me. Very exciting."

"Does it ever overwhelm you?" Helen mused. "The idea that some tiny thing will have to be you one day?"

Draco closed his eyes, exhaling.

"Yes," Abraxas said. "It still knocks the wind out of me, truth be told. Sometimes."

Helen gave him an appreciative smile, then rose to her feet. "I'll let you two chat," she said, and gave a small curtsy, which she must have practiced. Draco wanted to beg her to stay, but it was too late, and then he and his grandfather were alone.

Across the room, Lucius was watching, as he always was. Draco thought about the life he'd spent under the microscope of his father's approval and felt his pulse bang again with nerves.

"It's a boy, isn't it?" Abraxas asked quietly.

Draco closed his eyes again.

"It's no wonder you feel this way," Abraxas remarked. "If it were a girl you'd be far more comfortable. She'd have all sorts of role models—all kinds of people to look up to. So many strong, capable women in your life." He gestured around the room with a fond glance. "A daughter would be so much simpler, wouldn't it? She'd have her own problems, her own experiences. You could treasure her properly, love her, adore her. You'd be able to look at her without seeing some version of yourself."

Draco swallowed.

"But a son," Abraxas said, and trailed off.

Hermione had returned, though she was sidetracked by Jamie, who was fascinated with her pregnant belly. Still, she was in Draco's line of sight, which was a relief.

"I know it must come as a shock to you that I am no less imperfect than your father. I suppose I'd hoped to keep that from you, selfishly, because I have been so very, very fond of being your hero." Abraxas' voice was steady, measured, low. "It has always been my nightmare, the day you would wake up and realize I was just a man, as flawed as any other. I was so fearful of it and still, it snuck up on me—took me entirely by surprise. I thought I'd still have a long way to go before you saw me for what I was."

Draco glanced aside, and Abraxas' smile twisted thinly.

"The greatest thing I have ever been is whatever I was to you," Abraxas said. "I don't want to be presumptuous, but I think it must have been something very special."

"It was," said Draco, clearing his throat. He hated to localize his feelings to the past tense, but he couldn't bring himself to soften. Not now. Not if everything he did and said next would depend on preserving some degree of separation between them.

"Mm." Abraxas shifted in his seat. "I suppose it doesn't befit a king to ask for forgiveness."

Draco looked up. "Actually, Grandfather, I should think it d-"

"I wasn't finished. A king does not ask for forgiveness, but a man does, and that's what I am. First and foremost, I am your grandfather," Abraxas said, shifting in his seat. "Take away the crown, Draco, and your love is still the thing I cannot live without."

"I'm not asking you to live without it." Draco turned to Abraxas in frustration. "But why should a king not ask forgiveness? Why should the crown never bend? It's absurd, Grandfather. This monarchy is built on injustice. Can you really not apologize for that?"

"When you are king, you will be the kind of king you wish to be," Abraxas replied simply. "I'll be dead and gone, and that will be your choice. But when I took the throne, I had my father's example, as he had his father's—"

"And you think he was perfect? That any of them were honestly, truly above reproach?"

Abraxas opened his mouth, then closed it.

"I am proud of you," he said, "and also, I am terrified of you."

Draco folded his hands, staring at them.

"I'm an old man," Abraxas said. "Set in my ways. Forgive me if the discomfort of your conscience next to mine is more than I can sit with."

"I'm not—"

"I am the past, Draco. I am never more aware of it than when I look at you. And that's the gracelessness of it, the cruelty, the way you're better and cleverer, able to look at the world with your mind wide open when I, who is supposedly wiser, am not." Abraxas glanced at him. "I'm not saying I'm incapable of change," he said. "I'm just saying that I'm an old man, and one who needs to move much more slowly than you think I should."

"You're not that old," Draco said.

"Oh, yes I am," Abraxas corrected with a laugh. "Someday, when you're my age, you'll look down at yourself and wonder how on earth you got here, and you'll know it the way I do: you're old. But for now, I'm pleased you've reserved a spark of fantasy for me." He nudged Draco's shoulder with his own, and winked. "Maybe I've not lost all my magic after all."

Abraxas had always been funnier than Lucius, perpetually in a better mood. He and Draco had conspired together, sharing the same temperament, the same humor, the same outlook on life, while Lucius was surly and disapproving and the bane of Draco's existence. For so many years, Abraxas had been Draco's favorite person—his protector, his ally, and his King.

"Grandfather." Draco turned to him. "I will always love you. But I will never do it blindly."

"I know." Abraxas took his chin in hand. "And I admire you all the more for that."

"Draco," said Hermione, and he looked up, seeking out the source of her voice.

"Here, help an old man up," said Abraxas, holding out a hand for Draco's arm.

"Draco," Hermione said again.

"Coming," he called back blindly, glancing askance. "Steady on, Grandfather—"

"Thank you," Abraxas said, blinking, and then his smile went crooked. "Draco."

"Draco!"

"One second, Grandfather—" He looked around, spotting Theo. "What's going on?"

"Not sure," Theo said, frowning to where Pansy, Daphne, and David were blocking Hermione from view and then back at Draco, just as Abraxas released his arm. "Draco!" Theo said, pointing.

"What?" Draco turned in time to see his grandfather stumble, then collapse. "Grandfather!"

"DRACO," came a shriek of his mother's voice.

Abraxas was lying still on the ground and the sound in Draco's ears was suddenly tinny, funny-pitched.

"Helen," Draco said blearily, dropping to his knees and spotting her from the corner of his eye. "Helen, can you…?"

"I'm here, sweetheart." She knelt beside him, taking Abraxas' pulse and looking up somewhere, at something. "Call an ambulance."

"I…" Draco swallowed, fumbling for his phone. "Where's my—"

"Not you," Helen said to Draco, taking his arm. "Theo's got it, don't worry. You with me?"

Draco's vision swam.

"Helen," he said. "Is she… where's… what's happening?"

"Hermione's in labor, honey. Her water broke and we're taking her to the hospital now. And your grandfather seems to have had a stroke." Her hand was tight on his arm, the claws of her fingers saying _wake up, snap out of it, get up_, even if her voice was calm.

"Blood clots," Draco mumbled. They were the biggest worry post-heart attack. Clots formed easily in the legs and moved to the brain. Helen had told him this was true and then she had reminded him that his father—his _father_, Lucius was the sick one, had always been the sick one—was well taken care of, and also, she was a dentist.

"Draco, sweetheart. We have to go, okay?"

He felt a tug at his collar, which must have been Theo. No, Harry. That made sense.

"You go with Abraxas," Harry said in his ear. "Theo will go with you. Pansy and I can stay with Hermione—"

"No, no, wait." Draco's hand shot out, catching something. This was Theo, definitely. "No."

"Draco, we can't wait. Hermione's contractions are only a few minutes apart—"

_I'm the past._

"Hang on—"

_I will always love you._

"Draco, mate—"

His son or his grandfather?

Draco closed his eyes and let out a breath, his pulse racing and racing until finally, with a sting of clarity, he remembered.

You only get what you love most.

* * *

_**a/n:**_ _I would not have left you on this cliff by choice, but then I saw the word count. Be back soon!_


	16. You Get What You Love Most

**Chapter 16: You Get What You Love Most**

_September 1, 2020  
Buckingham Palace, London, England_

Initially, Hermione's thought had been: forks, Mom was right, which was a thought she'd been having in steadily increasing frequency but was never more annoyed to discover than right then. It felt like all the worst things about mortality: uncomfortable, gassy, swollen, like a stomachache mixed with menstrual cramps, and therefore not entirely foreign but also not entirely not.

Helen, who had very unhelpfully insisted prior to that moment that giving birth was, quote, "like pooping," (Hermione imagined saying this to Narcissa and immediately bit back a hysterical sob-laugh) was unfortunately not as inaccurate as Hermione had thought she would be. But then again, what had she expected? _Of course_ the life-giving process would have to be grotesquely, primevally human. From time to time, even Hermione forgot that that's what women were—not princesses or duchesses or _ladies_ but actually, idiotically human—and now, the idea that Narcissa and Pansy had gone through this precise regimen of utter unfeminine nastiness was almost—not quite, but very nearly—absurd enough to distract her from the fact that she would soon be giving birth alone.

Hermione had not needed anyone to tell her that things were "happening very quickly," as she could feel how quickly things were going, thank you very much. No really Princess this is very unusual, okay yes Dobby thank you not helpful, I'm aware. Was there a better word for this kind of… pain? Allegedly pain, though that was too localized a term for it. Pain was watching Abraxas collapse or seeing the look on Draco's face, or Lucius'. Had anyone checked on Lucius? Pain was whatever had shadowed his cheeks and aged him decades within seconds; it was not what was happening to Hermione, which was human. Disgusting, but human. It was the bizarre, cramping awareness that she was so full of life it was now forcing its own way out.

The hospital room was prepped and ready for her (had been, just in case, because who wanted to be caught unawares when the Princess of Wales trotted repulsively in to defecate out—again, a hysterical hiccup of laughter—the heir to the motherboarding throne) so there was nothing to worry about, all this was very normal, just breathe Hermione YES MOM I KNOW, SHUT UP Everything would be fine I KNOW THAT he'll be with you soon don't worry do you need help DAD PLEASE I'M FINE Hermione calm yourself women have had babies before READ THE ROOM PANSY NOW IS NOT THE TIME but inside her head was just Draco, Draco, Draco, I'm so sorry, I'd hold it in for you if I could, I'd make this little thing inside me shove over to make room for everyone I've ever loved and keep all of us safe from hurt if I could, but I can't. I'm so sorry I can't. Was she crying or laughing or both? She wanted to wander into the woods and scream—that's it, just scream. My body is in turmoil, she thought, and my mind is all the worse.

For the first time in ten years, Hermione Granger would have to do something really and truly alone.

She was almost fully in the car, soaked with sweat, the door about to close (_a stroke right after a heart attack sounds really bad but he'll be fine, won't he? Oh god oh god oh god—_) when there was a shout, several voices, her mother's and Daphne's and then, all of a sudden, an unexpected blur of silvery-pale.

"Hi."

Draco's face when he shoved himself into the backseat beside her was so pale it was almost translucent. For a moment, Hermione wished Hortense had been there to accuse him of vampirism and then, abruptly, she screamed with it, the utter forking delusion of possibly wanting Hortense to be anywhere. Or alternatively, it was the whole life-giving cramp thing.

Hi Bruce, Hermione thought, pained. You're always here when I need you most.

But what she said was, "Draco, your grandfather—"

"I know." His face was stony and cool with a sheen of apprehension. He was certain. The decision had been made, but not without cost. "Drive," he said, presumably not to her.

"Zacharias Smith will fillet you for this on Twitter," Hermione panted. A ridiculous thought, given the circumstances, but she could see it now so clearly: _ROYAL FAMILY FEUD CONFIRMED AS PRINCE DRACO ABANDONS KING ABRAXAS TO THE VEIL BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH_. No, no way it would be something that theatrical, Zacharias Smith didn't have an ounce of panache. Forks, she missed Rita Skeeter. How forking unfair was that? Ouch, ouch, ouch, only this wasn't pain, Hermione thought. This was life, hallelujah or whatever, this was life.

"I can live with Smith. I can't live with the alternative." The car was moving and Draco had seized her hand, grey gaze wide with terror. "Grandfather told me himself, Hermione, he's the past. You, the baby, you're my future. I have to choose the future."

He clutched her fingers and she clutched back. No matter what, she thought painfully, he would always face the same impossible choice, over and over. Right now it was between grandfather and child, but in the end it was always the same. It was always a choice between the way things were or the way things ought to be.

"And if he dies?" she asked, her voice low, wondering if even speculating such a thing aloud would somehow count as treason. "What if he dies and you don't get to say goodbye? What if you don't get another chance to tell him—"

"He knows," Draco said, cutting her off with a shake of his head. "My father will be with him, and anyway, he knows. Whatever I could say, he already knows."

Certainty was a gift very few people were ever afforded. She wanted to say how can you be sure, but what would be the point? If he would suffer it later, regret or guilt or whatever it would be, why induce it now? He shut his eyes and she shut hers and they both grimaced through their separate but equal waves of abject humanity.

"It's you and me now," Draco said, and she looked at him and thought holy shirts this is going fast, it's all so incredibly fast, how can we possibly be ready?

But then—

We leave traces, she thought desperately. We always leave traces.

Abruptly, she remembered that once, as a child, perhaps seven or eight, a classmate's rabbit had died. The girl was a mess, going on and on about Binky this and Binky that, to which Hermione's exceedingly logical mind had told her that of course the correct way to deal with the problem was to search the library's encyclopedic catalogue about what happened to rabbits after they died. Evidently she had been gruesome, because the girl had cried and Hermione was made to wait in the office and then Helen arrived, bewildered and clad in her dental scrubs, frowning as the teacher explained that Hermione needed to learn about respect for the feelings of others. Helen had glanced sideways at her daughter, considered it, and said they would take the afternoon.

"Here's the thing," Helen said to Hermione over chocolate frosties and fries, "you were right to try and make your classmate feel better. It was really nice of you to try, but the truth is most people are afraid of death."

"Why?"

"Because everyone's afraid of dying," Helen said, scooping a bit of chocolate up with the crispy side of a fry. Remembering it, Hermione now tasted chocolate and salt, a mix of things, bittersweet. "They think when it's their turn, they won't matter anymore, they'll just be gone. They're scared people will forget them. But we leave traces," she said. "We always leave traces. Nothing on this earth can live without leaving its mark."

"Even rabbits?"

"Even rabbits."

"Does everyone die?"

"Everything that lives will eventually die," Helen confirmed.

"Even you?"

"Even me."

"Even me?"

"Even you. But," Helen assured Hermione's worried face, "you can't be afraid. Because if you're afraid to die, then how will you live?"

Hermione braced for another grueling riptide of abdominal cramping and looked at Draco, at how precious he was, how rare, how shiny and new, how burdened, how patient and strong, how much this choice of his had meant to her; how her perpetual, unsquashable fear—_he will always choose them over you_—could now, finally, be silenced.

It's you and me now, he'd said, and she felt it, not vindication or some smug sense of egoistic satisfaction, but acceptance. Understanding. A true, full-bodied belief. Heartache would come, terror would pass, or potentially the opposite, or maybe it was all the same, not even two sides of a coin but just that one feeling, different shades of it, happening over and over. But they couldn't be afraid, not of this—not of loss, not of childbirth, not of anything. This was just the anguish of humanity, another pitfall of mortality, a current within the divine split-second of experience that we are allowed to have between life and death and _oh my god_, Hermione thought, _oh my god— _

_Mom was right, she was right, she was right._

* * *

After a certain point, Hermione became sure she would permanently misremember. Maybe it was like people who ran marathons? Not that she ran marathons. (Obviously.) But maybe crossing the finish line rendered the whole process lost to a certain kind of amnesia, wherein all the work prior to that moment of transcendental supremacy could be easily swept under the rug. She vaguely remembered sadness rituals and panic attacks and stomach cramps leading up to this moment—but more clearly, more pressingly, there was this.

Who even cared how it had happened, or what it had taken? Sure, maybe it had taken hours of labor (no wonder they called it that) or maybe the sky had opened up and she'd been abducted by aliens but regardless of how the events had unfolded, somehow, all of a sudden, there he was.

Someday she would tell people it was beautiful, probably, which would be a horrible cliche, because everyone said it and who knew if they really meant it, since they could probably not even remember things exactly as they had been. Maybe it was beautiful? Maybe she'd believe that eventually. Maybe in a week or a few days or something.

"Want to hold him?" asked a beaming Dr Pomfrey.

Okay, Hermione thought, taking the wormy little peanut in her arms. Or maybe it was beautiful right now.

"Wow," said a hovering Draco, which was about as good as anything Hermione could come up with to say. "We made that?"

"Allegedly," Hermione said, staring down and fighting the urge to count his fingers and toes, just to check. Just to make sure. "Do you think he looks like you or me?"

"Are you asking me because you already have some idea, or because you can't tell?"

"I can't tell," she confessed a little morosely, and Draco gave a weary, delirious sort of laugh.

"I can't either," he admitted. "Do you think people who can are just lying?"

"Maybe they love their babies more," Hermione lamented.

"No." Draco leaned over, kissing her cheek while they both stared down at the bundle of unidentifiable features they'd made. "Not true. Not possible."

She reached blindly up to take hold of his shoulder with her free hand, as close to a hug as she could manage with the feeble use of one arm, and then, grudgingly, shifted to pass the baby along for him to carry. "Here. You hold him."

"You're sure?" He sounded scared.

"I carried him around for nine months, Draco. You can hold him for five minutes." She was being very calm and reasonable under the circumstances, in her opinion. I miss you already, she thought, seized with instant panic the moment the baby's weight transferred from her body to his.

Draco took their son in his arms, staring down at it like the alien thing that had dropped in their laps through some mysterious process Hermione could no longer fully remember, and at precisely that moment were voices, somewhere down the hall.

"Probably your parents," Draco said, his eyes fixed on the thing in his arms. Their thing. I made that, Hermione thought with awe and no small amount of self-satisfaction, before remembering the world had probably continued on outside them, and perhaps the sound of footsteps brought with it the prospect of news.

She forced a smile. "Probably," she agreed.

The door opened a crack, more voices, and Draco turned just as Snape entered, his face drawn and his hands solemn and his eyes dark with portent, heavy with change.

He dropped to one knee, slowly, and bent his head, and Hermione inhaled sharply.

"God save the King," said Snape.

Draco reached behind him, feeling wordlessly for Hermione's hand, and they looked down at their son in a moment of tender quiet, breathing from each other's lungs. Grateful and sad, tired and different.

"God save the King," she whispered to him, and his grip on her tightened.

He bent to kiss their son's forehead, so close that only she would see the glint of tears.

* * *

_1 September 2020_

_**THE PRINCESS OF WALES HAS BEEN SAFELY DELIVERED OF A SON**_

_Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales was safely delivered of a son this evening._

_The baby weighs 8lb 6oz._

_The Prince of Wales was present for the birth._

_The Duke and Duchess of Malfoy and members of both families have been informed and are delighted with the news._

_Her Royal Highness and her child are both doing well and will remain in hospital overnight. _

* * *

_2 September 2020_

_**HIS MAJESTY KING ABRAXAS HAS DIED**_

_His Majesty King Abraxas passed away peacefully yesterday evening after spending the morning with family and friends._

_The Duke and Duchess of Malfoy were present for his death._

_His Majesty will lie in state in Westminster Hall for the public to pay their respects. The Archbishop of Canterbury will oversee funeral proceedings, which will take place in due course._

* * *

_2 September 2020_

_**THE PRINCE OF WALES TO BE CROWNED KING DRACO I**_

_His Royal Highness Draco, Prince of Wales to be crowned King Draco I. His wife, Her Royal Highness Hermione, Princess of Wales, will become Queen Hermione. _

_In addressing the nation this evening, His Majesty mourned the loss of his grandfather, adding, "No one on this earth lives without making their mark. The life of our beloved King is no exception."_

_More to come in due course as the nation pays its respects to England's most enduring monarch._

* * *

_14 September 2020_

_**THE KING AND QUEEN NAME THEIR BABY**_

_While the nation continues to mourn the loss of King Abraxas, hope remains for the future that His Majesty helped create. In this spirit, the King and Queen are pleased to announce that they have named their son Armand Theodore Orion._

_The baby will be known as Armie to his adoring parents. _

* * *

"MY GOD, HE'S BACK," hissed Hortense, clutching at Thibaut's arm and staring, dumbfounded, at baby Armand—aka Armie, who was wriggling as usual in Hermione's arms. (He was a wriggly sort of thing in general, which Hermione supposed made him more Jamie than Teddy. Not that there were only two kinds of babies, but seeing as her experience was limited, that was the polarity at hand.)

"It can't be him," said Thibaut, holding one hand to his chest in apparent winded concern. "It simply can't be."

"For heaven's sake Thibaut, you must be blind!" exclaimed Hortense. "Can you possibly not recognize the gravity furrowed in his brow? The authority within his noble lobes? Which is not even to mention the heated, primal ferocity—"

"What? Where do you see that?"

"There, along the jaw!"

Hortense stared piningly at Armie, who in turn hiccuped, then wailed.

"Not that I have any idea what you're talking about," Hermione cut in, adjusting the baby in her arms—truly, she could not imagine the discomfort of being an infant; imagine being surprised by one's own mysterious bodily functions—"nor do I care," she added emphatically, "but we figured he had enough to carry around without also naming him after Abraxas."

"Forget Abraxas! Where did you find the name Armand?" demanded Hortense, becoming distracted as Armie jerkily waved a fist. "Are you threatening me?" she asked him, which was an insane question that Hermione could not even begin to explain. "Because it has never worked before, as you well know!"

"Armand is a family name," Hermione said, expecting Armie to cry at the sound of Hortense's obvious distress, though oddly enough he simply stared at her, serene. "We named him after Theo, obviously, and Orion for Black tradition—"

"Well it certainly doesn't matter what you _name_ him," Thibaut snapped. "He's still back whether you like it or not!"

Hortense rounded on Thibaut. "I thought you weren't convinced?"

Armie, to Hermione's delight, spared a small laugh, or something she would convince herself was a laugh, even if developmental milestones suggested it couldn't be.

"That's enough from you," Thibaut informed Armie hotly. "You could have given us a bit of warning!"

Armie made a series of babbling sounds, looking at a spot above Hermione's head.

"Of course we haven't neglected the grimoire!" Hortense half-shrieked, suddenly stomping her foot like a recalcitrant teenager. "Come on, Thibaut, let's go, we've done nothing to deserve this. And as for you—you can't just run around acting as if nothing's changed!" she informed Armie, who yawned.

"OH, YOU'D LIKE THAT, WOULDN'T YOU?" thundered Thibaut. "Well, just see if we ever come back—"

"Because we won't!" Hortense supplied snottily.

"BECAUSE WE WON'T!" Thibaut agreed.

Then, to Hermione's disbelief, the two of them stomped out of the room, seemingly discussing between them whether they ought to convalesce somewhere back in France.

"What on earth was that?" asked a bemused-looking Draco, who had returned to the nursery with Percy in tow.

"I have literally never known," Hermione assured him, lifting Armie's hand to wave. "Come to snuggle, then, Papá?" she asked in the miniature voice that was ostensibly their son's.

"Stop calling me that or it'll stick," Draco advised her, though he took Armie's proffered hand with a warm, genuine smile—the first she'd seen from him that day, which had otherwise been filled with press releases and necessary correspondence. Everything, Hermione supposed, that would count towards his orientation for a new and increasingly demanding job.

While the official mourning period for Abraxas' death had passed, Draco had taken to wearing an old cardigan of his grandfather's around the house; one of those old, cable-knitted garments that made him look both young and old all at once. It had been among the things Lucius had taken from the Palace, much of which would probably be displayed henceforth in museums or stored in the royal vaults. Like Abraxas' life, many of his belongings would be conferred for public consumption. The sweater, however, was vintage enough to precede his era of kingship, and therefore Draco clung to it, and ostensibly the familiar; what little of it remained.

The days following the funeral were busy, blessedly so, with baby gurgles—and somewhat less adorably, with the logistics of packing, as Hermione and Draco were going to be giving up their apartments in Kensington Palace in favor of the necessary move to Buckingham Palace. Having so many residences was a frippery, as Snape would say (had said, many times), as were about half the palaces once owned by Abraxas. They would revert to government property, separate from the crown itself, and Lucius and Narcissa, rather than maintaining their hold on Clarence House, would renovate a suite of rooms in Buckingham Palace for purposes of visits from their primary residence in the country.

"You won't need us in London once all of this passes," had been Lucius' take on the subject. What he meant, Hermione suspected, was that once his father had been buried, he would likely not find comfort in London again for quite some time.

Grief had struck them all differently, though without exception it left them staggering around, to some degree blind and dumb. Draco, unsurprisingly, was handling it best, or at least with the most measured sense of rationality. Whatever Abraxas had said to him before his death, it must have been enough of a farewell to count for something. Quietly, Hermione wondered whether Abraxas might have known it was coming; if maybe he had felt it that morning, the same way she had woken up with stomach pain, knowing but not knowing it would be the day to change her life.

Abraxas had not regained consciousness after his stroke, though Lucius and Narcissa had been at his bedside regardless, long after his last breath. Their goodbyes had been said in silence, or perhaps more accurately, _with _silence. That was the trouble with goodbyes, the inability to say things in words, no matter how diplomatically one phrased them. There was no way of saying "I wanted nothing more than to be the man you were" without also implying "I wish you had loved me more for who I really was," so silence was probably the best way to go for Lucius. As for Narcissa, who had been intermittently tearful, Hermione suspected it was a mix of sadness and guilt. For her, "I love you" could not be said without "I hate you." Better to let the bad go and leave with silence, instead.

Thankfully there was Armie, who was noisy and messy and filled with unremarkably mundane extremes, sweet baby smells and terrible ones, sleeplessness and ecstasy mixed with a clumsy, terrorizing sort of love. It wasn't as revolutionary as Hermione expected; not some instant awakening of maternal instinct like she'd thought. Not eureka!, not a lightbulb of sudden, lightning-bolt, die-for-you desperation, but a sunrise, a gradual dawn of undeniability, more steady and unceasing with each passing day. The idea that she loved her son snuck up on her so subtly that when she looked around to see who'd put it there, she couldn't find a trace.

They were rarely alone, and Hermione thrilled with it, the village of her life. Her parents and Draco's parents and Jamie and Teddy and _their_ parents and Theo and Daphne and Prince Lucius (the dog) and at the same time, endless work that couldn't be avoided. This, the conservatives wailed, was the last thing the country needed—as if things weren't bad enough without a thirty-year-old child and his charlatan wife assuming the throne! Nothing new, exactly, but the difference was Hermione's disinterest.

It all seemed so unimportant now. Not the work itself, but the _opinions_. The monarchy is doomed, no it's saved, no it's over, no it's just beginning. The back-and-forth was unrelenting, and after years of being willing (no, eager!) to bend until she broke, it was newly, strangely unbearable to do.

It seemed to Hermione there was a reflex missing somewhere; some swing of a mechanism that didn't quite latch. She waited to feel concern when Padma told her there were reports of her "luxurious" maternity leave; the disrespect she showed the kingdom (the one who'd never respected her, you remember that one) by staying home with the child who needed her in order to survive, but nothing came. No anxiety, no dread, no glimpse of misery. Fuck 'em, she thought instead, the first time she'd thought that in about three years, and when Armie had yawned in what she felt was an approving way, she'd thought again, more adamantly, _yeah, fuck 'em!_

"I don't want Armie to be a prince," Hermione had sighed the night before they made the name announcement. ("I can't think what possibly possessed you to call him Theodore," had been Pansy's response, though she more than anyone seemed enamored with the child himself.)

The idea of it, their baby on display for the world to consume like a commodity and not a human life, was enough to sicken Hermione, piercing like an arrow to her heart. Armie was so small, so very, very small and so immensely in need of her care, and it was new for her, the idea that something truly needed her. Not something like a cause—not some distant, humanitarian concept of _doing good_—but a person, a tiny, tiny person who faced a thousand deaths just from swallowing wrong, _needed_ her. He needed her to keep him safe. It was her job to keep him safe, and that meant safe from everything. Bears. Strong winds. Bacteria. Zacharias Smith. The pressures of primogeniture. Media scrutiny. Polio. Bears.

"Okay," said Draco, "then let's not."

She'd thought he was joking for a second, or agreeing with her simply because he wasn't listening, which was a thing normal husbands probably did but not Draco.

She stared at him, and after a second he said, "What?"

"What do you mean let's not?" she asked, bewildered. "Percy's written the press release and it says right there, 'he'll be known as His Royal Highness Prince Armand of Wales.' Same as you were."

"Well, that's because Percy was using my birth announcement as a template," Draco reminded her. "But we're the Palace now, aren't we? So if we don't want to say it that way, we don't have to."

"Oh." She felt confusion, or relief. "So you're just talking about changing the wording?"

"Sure, yeah," he said.

She felt it was probably necessary to push him on that, as his phrasing was obviously the height of ambivalence. He'd been so sure about everything since his grandfather had passed away, so then why not this? Did he want his son to be called a prince or not?

But then again, what kind of question was that? He was one, whether they announced it or not. Armie was a prince, just like Draco was a prince, just like Lucius, and Abraxas…

She let it go for the time being. The announcement was made, as was the subsequent speculation. "It appears the new era of monarchy is approachability," had been Rita Skeeter's take when she, of course, was asked. "In some ways it's brilliant—as if these two dazzling, attractive young people are simply your good friends Hermione and Draco, and indeed their child is just a normal child. Armie! They've resurrected an old name from their monarchist past and given it a shiny new look for the modern age. They're royals who care about our problems, because really, they're just like us," she mused, concluding with a noticeably caustic, "How charming."

Very Rita, which was oddly reassuring instead of angering. It was a pleasure to know that while some things became unrecognizable—like this, the process of packing up the nursery they'd used for only a matter of weeks—some things never changed.

"Any news?" Hermione asked Percy, glancing over Draco's shoulder.

"Some of the senior courtiers are expecting to hear about any… potential reconfiguration," Percy said, clearing his throat and giving Hermione a distress signal that suggested Draco wasn't giving him a straight answer.

"Hey." She nudged Draco, who was focused (conveniently) on Armie. "You haven't told them which ones are staying?"

"I don't want to overwhelm them," he said, tickling Armie's foot.

"Overwhelm them with what?"

"Oh, you know. Departure from tradition. They're already afraid of me as it is."

Hermione glanced at Percy, who lifted his hands. _No idea_, said the gesture.

"Are you planning to keep all your grandfather's courtiers?" she asked slowly. "Because if not, surely there's something shy of a… sacking. Maybe you could suggest they retire?"

"Maybe," said Draco.

Well, that was about enough of that. She glanced again at Percy, who inclined his head.

"I'll be in the offices," he replied, touching his cufflink appreciatively, and then he slipped away, leaving the two of them alone.

It seemed fairly apparent to Hermione that Draco was in need of some comfort, so she handed Armie off to him, thinking that would be something on which to focus his hands while she talked.

(Also, it was very picturesque. The love of her life and their son. Portraiture at its finest.)

"Do I have to get Theo on the phone," she asked him, "or are you going to tell me yourself?"

He looked up at her with a crooked, princely smile.

"It's mad," he said, returning his attention to Armie, who'd already begun drifting to sleep.

"Try me," she suggested.

"No, really, it's genuinely mad. I haven't even said a word to Theo."

"You haven't told _Theo_?" That was unprecedented.

"Well, not explicitly. Not as a real thing."

"Meaning what?"

"Nothing. Sort of."

"Hey," Hermione said, a vocal nudge, and he looked up again. "I'm not an idiot, you know. You won't name your courtiers. You won't use the title Prince of Wales for Armie's press releases. You cannot run from this," she said flatly, and he grimaced.

"I'm not running." He put the emphasis on _I'm_.

"What does that mean, _you're_ not? So someone else is running?"

"Nobody's running."

"Draco," Hermione sighed, stepping towards him. "You marrying me was mad. Everything after is just a fun exercise in lunacy."

She was close enough that she could lean on his shoulder while he turned to kiss her forehead. She could watch Armie breathe and feel Draco's warmth.

She felt resignation creak through his bones, straining in his joints.

"I don't want to do this to my son," he said, his voice strained.

"Which part?"

"Any of it." He looked at her exhaustedly. "I'm tired," he said.

"All new parents are tired." In a flash of nostalgia, she remembered Harry from the early days with Jamie, the new creasing beside his eyes, the shadows of his laughter. That was different, she realized suddenly, because he was still laughing. Harry had only needed sleep.

"I'm not tired of this. Never of this." Draco shook his head. "I'm tired of knowing I'll never live a day of my own life until I die. Tired of wondering if what the press did to my mother will mean repeating history with you. I'm just sick with it," he told her, fixing his grey gaze on hers. "Sick with knowing England doesn't need me, or anyone like me, as much as I need you."

Briefly, a knot tightened in Hermione's throat. "But you wouldn't—"

"Abdicate? No, never. I'm ready to be king." He shrugged; certainty again. "I'm just not ready to sacrifice my son's life, or to play court politics with my own. They'll be outraged when I replace them with Snape and Padma and Percy, but that's not the part that worries me. I'm not going to be able to do this if it means playing by the old rules."

"So what does that mean? New rules?"

"New game," he said. When she didn't know what to do with that, he continued, "Look at the world, Hermione. I have no place in it."

"Your grandfather didn't, maybe, but Draco, you—"

"This world doesn't need me," he said, "or anyone like me. I'm a fossil."

"You're not."

"The crown is."

"You're the crown." She frowned at him, unsure where he was going with this.

"Hermione, think about this objectively," he said, shifting Armie so he could pull her into his side. "If you'd never married me, would you think I was important?"

"Of course I w-"

"No. Sweetheart, no, you wouldn't." He was fixing her with a curiously stoic look. "If you were Hermione Granger, journalist or lawyer or whatever extraordinary thing you'd be if not for me—if you'd never met my father or my grandfather—then tell me, logically. As logically as you know how to be for everyone else but me. Should I exist?" he asked her seriously.

Surely this question could not be answered, she thought with panic. Not like this! Hadn't thousands of people studied it academically, politically, philosophically, ethically…? The British economy relied at least in part on the monarchy. Their wedding, their baby, everything she wore, it was all an economic boost. The Hermione Effect! Fashion! Tourism! Entertainment and television and film! True, it was all paying homage to a classist system and yes Abraxas had levied his power unfairly, yes it was archaic and reliant on prejudice and privilege, yes it was a vestige of an empire that left entire cultures crumbling in its path—but still, what was England without its king? True, the fact that the country prided itself on antiquity meant it continued to ignore the marginalized, as if glory for England had ever truly meant glory for all. Yes, Anglophilia relied at least in part on obsolescence—on a fantasy that had never truly been history—and the UK itself was not that. The real UK consisted not of a king or a glamorous peerage but of real, actual people. A people divided between hope for a better future and the unbreakable condescension of a foregone class.

What had always been the problem? That a commoner from California without a speck of royal blood was never good enough to be above them, and maybe that was actually, really true. Maybe nobody was meant to stand where she stood and look down; not Narcissa, not Bellatrix, not Abraxas, not Lucius. Not anyone, regardless of what color they bled.

Maybe she'd always quietly known that, and it was finally time to face the truth.

"No," Hermione said, "we shouldn't exist," and she thought for a moment that Draco would look frustrated or saddened. Instead his face filled with relief, and he kissed her, and kissed Armie, and she realized she'd already known.

She believed him when he said he hadn't told anyone his intentions. She also believed they'd known long ago what he would inevitably have to do.

"So," Draco said to the top of her head before pulling away, "business as usual?"

For once, he looked free and unburdened. Finally clean.

"Not even a little bit," Hermione assured him. "Not even close."

* * *

The weeks that followed were rife with conflict; a series of battles for which Draco had few allies. The Daily Prophet continued to speculate about Draco's absence from Abraxas' deathbed while the adoring stan accounts continued to post about their love for (and curiosity about) Armie. Percy, in the hopes that some transparency was better than none in terms of preserving their privacy, called a press conference for Hermione and Draco to address the cameras briefly, baby Armie snoozing in Hermione's arms.

"They'll want more," Snape had warned in an undertone.

It was inescapable what precise sort of "more" he meant. Umbridge continued to press for a show of political unity, going so far as to mention publicly that she expected to preserve the relationship with Draco that she'd once had with Abraxas. Clearly, her expectation was to use his Millennial appeal to steady the sinking ship as the impact of Brexit became apparent to those who'd initially supported it. Vocal though the Dursleys continued to be sans-Petunia, there was little to be done about the pending financial crises. Most financial projections promised nothing shy of a worsening recession. At stake was Umbridge's entire base, which was about to discover that "protecting" Britain meant plunging it into massive disrepair.

She was persistent; Hermione gave her that. With each request for Draco to push his address to Parliament came an increasingly saccharine invitation to tea. Having been raised by a woman who understood the unique weaponization of mealtime invitations, Draco finally conceded to invite Umbridge himself, where she was startled to find upon arrival that Queen Hermione would be joining them.

"I imagine there's no need for Her Majesty's presence," Umbridge simpered. "I'd _hate_ to take her away from her many familial obligations."

"I'm sure I won't be away long," Hermione replied in the octave she couldn't prevent herself from using around Umbridge, as Draco gestured for one of the Palace footmen to pour the tea.

"Well," Umbridge said, dabbing innocently at a corner of her mouth as she spoke directly to Draco. "As you know, my relationship with your grandfather was a very… rewarding one. For both of us." She tilted her head to accommodate the full falsity of a blinding smile. "I only wish to reassure our countrymen that in that respect, nothing has changed."

"Things have changed, I'm afraid," Draco replied, taking a sip of his Assam and leaving the statement to fill the space between them without further explanation.

The resulting silence was thick enough to require a cup and saucer of its own.

"Your Majesty." Umbridge smiled with preeminent patience. "Perhaps it has not been made clear to you the importance of our friendship? As you know, it is I who holds the reins of policy in this country," she said, as if anyone in the room might be unclear about the powers of the Prime Minister or the other nonsensical frivolities of Britain's constitutional monarchy. "Your support is invaluable, of course. But mine is somewhat…" She smiled again, eyes wide and doll-like. "Compulsory."

"I imagine so," Draco agreed. "My grandfather always made it very clear the importance of cooperation between monarch and state. And no one would know better than he," he added, taking a sip, "as you'll recall he saw many Prime Ministers come and go."

To that, Umbridge recoiled, taking the statement for a threat. "You do realize you could be easily legislated out of existence? Both of you," she snapped, glaring at Hermione as if she'd been the one clamoring for the powers of the crown, but then Umbridge remembered herself, painting on a smile too free of mirth to be anything but a smirk. "You'll recall, I imagine, the risks your family faces if Shacklebolt were to succeed in my stead?"

Draco sipped the last of his tea, glancing over at Hermione's empty cup. "Well," he said, "it seems we're done here. Thank you very much for your time," he told Umbridge, ringing the bell that meant they'd finished. "I look forward to addressing Parliament in due course."

"You understand what I'm saying, don't you?" Umbridge said, shooting to her feet. "If you don't appear beside me, I _will_ move to abolish the monarchy. I'd hardly have to lift a finger!" she said, her face suddenly mottled and blotchy, as pink as her very-pink tweed. "How can you even imagine this country still supports your sodding family of philanderers and lunatics? Not to mention _her_," Umbridge flung at Hermione, "who'd happily fill your ear with poison just to cling to her wealth and her jewels!"

"We commoners do love our jewels," Hermione murmured to Draco, who gave her a half-laughing look of _not now_.

"I am the least of your problems," Umbridge said to Draco, apparently not finished with her point. "Once it's clear you plan to spit on the very memory of your grandfather's reign, your courtiers will run straight to the tabloids. Every nasty secret your family's ever kept will come spilling out, and what do you think will happen once the world knows the truth about your grandfather's dealings? He can no longer protect you, and neither can the _noble_ and most sordid house of Black." Her eyes glinted, manic with rage. "If you don't believe you have anything to lose, Your Majesty, think again!"

"Prime Minister," Draco cut in evenly. "I'm afraid you will not succeed in frightening me today. Perhaps see how the forecast looks tomorrow," he suggested, and then gestured for the doors to be opened, leaving Umbridge with no choice but to recognize her dismissal, forcing a curtsy before she took her leave.

"As fun as it is to watch, you probably shouldn't antagonize her," Hermione commented to him.

"I know," he sighed, kissing her hand before dismissing himself to speak with his staff.

As for Hermione, she kept her engagements limited. Ironically, the Palace continued to reject Hermione's proposals, with the senior courtiers—most of them titled or knighted for their loyal service to Abraxas' historical reign—insisting to Padma, just as they always had, that these things simply could not be done. They opposed Padma's very presence, and Percy's; the Wales staff were collectively less "experienced" (read: old, rich, straight) and their promotion over Abraxas' staff was unacceptable—sure to provoke outrage, as Hermione was frequently assured.

Where she was able to put her foot down, she did, though she made some concessions she might not have bothered with if not for the extenuating circumstances of hers and Draco's rise. There was a widespread public demand for reassurance, for calm, and though Hermione resented being relegated to the role of Mummy for the entire country purely as a result of her gender, it was worth it to speak to an experience she wished she'd seen. She spoke where she could about her struggles with fertility, the pressures of modern motherhood, all while blithely ignoring the very male commentary about the baby weight she hadn't yet lost.

Okay, so she didn't quite ignore it, not really. She suffered it, staring down at her body and wondering at the discoloration on her cheeks and the little hormonal bumps on her jawline and chin, but somehow it still brought her the community she needed. Women all across the United Kingdom defended her, sharing their own stories, and it was comforting for Hermione to know her experience was shared so universally. She launched a new programme inviting female creatives to tell their truths, even the dark ones. Depression, psychosis, infertility, loneliness, tenderness, yearning, rage, identity—all of it was a story, a picture, a mixed-media masterpiece of love and life and survival, and Hermione revelled in it. She would use modernity to make a village for more than just herself.

Pansy, who'd been reprimanded after using an MP as an example of a bully during one of her Powerful Words initiatives, often joined her on these outings. Astoria was typically nearby as well, and Hermione thrilled with the normalcy of encouraging her to pump when needed, taking the same opportunities herself. If Hermione would have her womanhood weaponized against her via her looks, her weight, or her role in Draco's life, then why not use it to speak as openly about her experience as she could? Even if what had gotten her there was fundamentally ill-conceived—even if she'd pole-vaulted to global significance by marriage—at least she would not waste a moment of the platform she had.

For Halloween, at Blaise's behest, they had a party. The theme was eras of exploration; Daphne was a picture-perfect vintage Amelia Earhart, Harry a Tarzan-resembling caveman, Pansy a Sherlock Holmes-ian steampunk, Theo a space cowboy (in reality he wore a child's Buzz Lightyear costume with a Western hat and boots), Hermione a Grecian Archimedes, Draco a botanical Darwin, Tracey a usual vision of herself who gave them five seconds of a wave and then left (much appreciated), and Blaise an Elizabethan Sir Francis Drake—and although they weren't all together, they were bolstered by the knowledge that they weren't so terribly distant after all.

"You know the presidential election is Tuesday," Blaise remarked when Hermione was handed the iPad hosting his telepresence.

"I know." Draco would be addressing Parliament the same day. "How does it feel over there?"

"Energized, I suppose?" Blaise had been working in San Francisco's financial district, having transferred to one of the American branches of his company. He now worked in the 555 California building, which, oddly enough, had once been the vision Hermione had for her own future when she thought she'd wind up a lawyer. Tracey, meanwhile, was overseeing a retrofit for the landmark Rosier Hotel, not terribly far from Grace Cathedral.

"People seem… well, invigorated," Blaise admitted. "A bit scared, too."

Understandable. Helen, who was on the whole not very emotional, had cried that night in November 2016, and Hermione probably would have, too, if not for being so numb with disbelief. "There's no possible way Bagman can win again," she said, only half-convinced. "Not after everything he's done."

"Evidently they said the same in 2016," Blaise said, shrugging. "And Crouch is hardly a perfect candidate."

"It's not about the perfect candidate," Hermione argued. "It's incremental change, the next best choice. And if the option is between imperfect and actively _destructive_—"

"I know. And I think this time most people are prepared to make sure it doesn't happen twice."

"I hope so." Hermione sighed and passed off the iPad to Draco, since she and Blaise typically had plenty of time to chat. She nearly always woke up to an email from him, with the latest one being nothing but exclamation points and the attachment of a sonogram.

So time went on, then. Life continued. Nothing on this earth lived without leaving its mark. Armie learned to recognize her voice, looking up when she spoke to him. Draco smiled more. Narcissa consented to be called Nan. She and Lucius were tender together, like old friends who'd suddenly remembered the springtime of their youths. Helen and David overused British slang until Hermione threatened to deport them. She and Draco wrote an essay that became a speech.

"Are you scared?" she asked him on the second night of November.

"A little," he admitted. They had Armie lying between them on the bed, curving towards each other with their toes touching. "Harry thinks it's brilliant, so that's always a bit worrying."

"What's Harry going to do?"

"The same thing, I expect. Some version of it."

"And Theo?"

"This has been Theo's plan for a longer time than he'll admit; probably ever since he and Daphne agreed they didn't want children. Though, that's assuming he gets a chance," Draco added drily, "since he's the only one of us left who's still got his predecessor to worry about."

"You don't think Nott would disinherit his only son, do you?"

"I don't think he could stand another scandal," Draco allowed, "so maybe not." He slid a curl fondly behind her ear. "Are _you_ ready for tomorrow?"

"Me? I'm not doing anything," she said with a laugh. "I'll be standing safely out of camera view."

"Yes, but they'll blame you," he said, doing them both the favor of pragmatism. "No one will want to believe this was my idea. They'll say I'm being disrespectful of my grandfather and that this is just the latest iteration of our family feud over you."

True. But still. "This is what you want, isn't it? This is what feels right to you?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

"Then this is what's right." She leaned over Armie to kiss her husband full on the mouth, then looked at them both, the twin beats of her heart. "I am so very proud of you," she whispered to Draco. "Of the man you are. The king you'll be. The father and husband and leader. I'm so desperately proud."

He smiled and she thought, not for the first time or last: God save the King.

"The best thing I ever did was love you," he said, and while she could list off a few other accomplishments—the little wriggly thing between them, for example—she decided to savor the sweetness for as long as it would stay.

* * *

"It is the honor of my life to be able to serve this country as its King. But it is also my honor to ensure that after me, there need not be another. I will spend my reign working closely with members of Parliament and the Church to ensure a smooth transition to the modern government this country deserves. While I know there will be those who disagree with my decision, I can't in good conscience believe what I believe and stand here before you claiming my right to rule. The future leaves no room for kings and queens, or for the tired beliefs of antiquity. It leaves no room for classism or privilege. It leaves no room for racism, sexism, or prejudice. I cannot ask you to sacrifice for others, or assure you that your life matters, while ignoring the hypocrisy of this institution's past."

"I am not obsolete yet," Draco continued, "but someday I will be. Someday, I should be. And when that day comes, sooner than many of us would like to admit, the best thing we can do for this world is change it. It is the lesson my grandfather taught me, and the lesson I hope to teach my son. To truly do good in this world is to be true to my place within it. So believe me when I tell you that it is an honor, and a privilege, to say to you today: it is time to let that change begin with me."

Hermione, fighting swells of emotion, was glad for the distraction of seeing the elder Theodore Nott entering the room from the corner of her eye. She glanced at him, arching a brow, and he approached her, near enough for her to hear without being close enough to appear that they were speaking.

"You don't have to worry about the courtiers," he said in an undertone. "They'll keep their mouths shut."

He said it like he'd done them a highly sinister favor. "We didn't ask you to do that," Hermione informed him, voice equally low.

"No," Nott agreed. "But Abraxas would have wanted his family safe." It wasn't a friendly statement, so Hermione wasn't surprised when Nott glanced irritably at Draco, his mouth tightening. "This is a disgrace," he muttered. "After everything his grandfather did for him. Abraxas would be ashamed."

"No he wouldn't," Hermione said, surprising herself with it. She'd had every intention to say nothing, but when Nott glanced at her, derisive with bemusement, she clarified, "He wouldn't be ashamed. He'd be proud of him, and you obviously know that. Or else you wouldn't have intervened for him."

Nott looked at her, then looked away. "God help us now," he said, and walked away, which was neither confirmation nor denial.

How odd it must feel not to have anywhere to fit anymore, Hermione thought. To be the final piece of a foregone era. How desperately lonely to be the only one left.

But then she looked at Draco, who was illuminated by camera lights, shining, and forgot any vestige of her past except for one.

_Super trouper_, she thought, _beams are gonna find me, shining like the sun._

_Smiling, having fun._

_Feeling like a number one._

"If no man is an island," Draco was saying, "then surely no man can be a nation. I am not England; I am _of_ England. This country is great not because of its kings or its past, but because of its people; those who choose to serve each other even at great cost to themselves. In its most storied moments, this country is great because of those who come together in unity and compassion instead of hate." That was Theo. "I was born here, I was raised here. But more importantly, I made a home here. I made a family here. I am made of here, and so are you." That was Harry. "I love England, and as with all great loves, it's the kind of love that changes you. It brings you to life in ways you could not have imagined, but even the truest loves are never blind." That was Abraxas. "It is love that tells me I cannot be silent. It tells me I can no longer be impartial. If silence is violence, then so is my complicity. And I will not be silent any more." That was Narcissa.

Draco looked into the crowd, catching Hermione's eye. "I know it is love because it drives me, pushes me. It compels me, makes me strong." (_Super trouper, beams are gonna blind me._) "I know it's love because it inspires me." (_But I won't feel blue_.) "I know it's love because it ignites me—sometimes terrifies me—but it always returns to me." (_Like I always do_.)

"And because it is love," Draco said directly to Hermione, "I know there is no path for me but forward."

('_Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you._)

* * *

"Exactly how late do you expect us to stay awake?" said Pansy, who'd already tucked Jamie and Teddy into bed in one of the guest rooms. They, at least, had been excited about the prospect of an impromptu sleepover, even if that hadn't initially been Hermione's intent.

She'd expected everyone to leave once things got sufficiently late, but instead they were all crawling around the Palace's private apartments, clearly without any intention to return to their separate homes.

"You don't have to stay," Hermione reminded Pansy. "I'm perfectly capable of watching the election results myself."

"Just because you're the only American in the room doesn't mean you're the only one who wants to see Bagman crushed under the weight of his own ego," said Harry, falling onto the sofa beside her as Draco walked in with Armie, mindlessly bouncing him to sleep. "Though it's worth pointing out that they likely won't be called until morning."

"Well, so be it, then," Hermione said, shrugging. "We're just spending some quality time with Blaise."

From Blaise, who was propped upright on the iPad screen from where he was still at the office: "So true. Ten points to the Destroyer of Nations."

Hermione, rolling her eyes: "I'm not sure that's technically any better than 'New Tracey' as far as nicknames go."

From Daphne, entering with Prince Lucius (the dog) at her heels: "I can't imagine why you'd oppose it. I think it's a very powerful nickname."

Blaise, encouragingly: "There have been countless memes circulating about it already. People here are starting to use 'Hermione Granger' as a verb."

From Pansy, with a scoff: "Meaning what? To flounce about with unbridled optimism?"

From Theo, who entered with what appeared to be either charcuterie or just a bunch of things he'd thrown on a wooden board: "I believe it's some equivalent of self-care, is it not? As in, 'this tapenade is toxic, let's Hermione Granger back to obscurity while we still can,' et cetera and so on."

Hermione: "What does that have to do with tapenade?"

Theo, chewing with his mouth full: "Hm?"

Hermione, sighing: "Never mind."

Pansy, to Draco: "How is the fallout, really?"

From Draco, shrugging as he bounced with Armie: "As expected. Those who approve do so deeply, those who disapprove do so loudly, and those who remain indifferent are rousingly unchanged."

Blaise: "It's not completely unheard of for the monarchy to give things back. Didn't we do that with Fiji?"

Theo: "Yes, very generous of us."

Draco, thoughtfully: "I suppose we're being unexpectedly applauded on Twitter by a children's book author who evidently hates trans people. And me."

Theo, through a mouthful of prosciutto: "Very generous of her, too."

Daphne, frowning: "Is she still around? Pansy told me she was dead."

Pansy: "Metaphorically, and you're welcome."

From Harry to Draco, with a chuckle: "I hope Umbridge was livid, at least."

Draco: "God, yes. She's got hardly any allies now that she's lost the monarchy as a bargaining chip. Certainly not with how many people have been publicly comparing her to Bagman, or suggesting her policies may go the same route."

Pansy, whose Powerful Words initiative spared absolutely no one, Umbridge included: "My goodness, who would do that?"

Blaise, raising a glass of what appeared to be water: "Well, society is dead, long live society and all that."

Daphne, cheerfully: "For the record, my mother's furious. Between this and Astoria she's been forced to abscond to the country for her health."

Hermione, aghast: "She's not actually blaming Astoria for the divorce, is she?"

Pansy, cutting in before Daphne could speak: "Of course she is. My mother would do the same if Henry ran off cavorting in the Mediterranean—simply tell me to continue lying on my back and thinking of England like any proper wife would. I expect she assumes he carouses as he pleases as it is."

Harry, with a lascivious glance at Pansy: "I do. But you and I both know you're never thinking of England when we carouse."

Hermione, ignoring Pansy's admonishing elbow to Harry's ribs: "Of course _your_ mother would say that. She's a mutant!"

Pansy, sipping her glass of Perrier: "So true. But she's a generational mutant, not one of a kind."

Daphne, thoughtfully: "Strange, isn't it? I wonder what the next generation will think of us. What do you suppose they'll hate us for? Low-rise jeans? Butterfly clips?"

Hermione: "I don't hate my mother."

Daphne, aghast: "Certainly not! She's a saint. Or something better, like a witch."

Theo, musingly: "Imagine Jamie saying that about her own mother."

Harry, with a scoff: "Jamie's mother is obviously a beautiful menace. And also a witch."

Pansy, with a shrug: "Thank you."

Daphne: "So then what's to become of us, do you think? Given that we've all grown up to be radicals."

Pansy, to Draco, while gesturing to Hermione: "Which is your fault, by the way. You might have just let her run off back to the colonies but no, you had to convince her to stay and now we're all going to be penniless anarchists—"

Hermione, with a furrow of nostalgia: "It was Harry who brought me back, actually. And Daphne. And it's not like you had no part in i-"

Pansy, to Draco: "Ten years and she still interrupts. You see what you did?"

Draco, chuckling into the top of Armie's head as Hermione groaned loudly: "You're right, I'm terribly sorry."

Pansy: "Apology accepted. Election results?"

Blaise, clicking refresh: "Still too early."

Hermione: "Again, you don't all have to stay here for this." (From everyone: silence as if she hadn't spoken.)

Theo, perching on the arm of the sofa: "What do you suppose will happen if Bagman wins?"

Blaise: "I'm a bit more concerned about what happens if Bagman _doesn't_ win. By the sounds of it, he's been slowly delegitimizing the election process just to claim the results invalid whatever happens."

Draco, pausing beside Theo: "Still, Bagman's just one man. However maniacal, surely the bigger issue is those who enable his madness?"

Hermione: "As in the Republicans?"

Draco, shrugging: "Them, or the voters. Whoever."

Pansy, staring thoughtfully into space: "It's all very mysterious, admittedly. How a man like that took power without the Bible-touting pro-lifers noticing he's just a corporate narcissist in conservative clothing."

Hermione, with unexpected bitterness: "It happens. Look at the Dursleys. There will always be people who want to look down on someone else, so there will always be people who side with Bagman."

Daphne, frowning: "Is that pessimism from you?"

Hermione, sighing: "Realism, I hope?"

Blaise: "Fear, more likely."

From everyone: a sigh.

Just then, Armie made a small noise of infantile malcontent and Draco rose to his feet again, bouncing, before slipping himself into the space beside Hermione.

"It doesn't matter what happens," he said, reaching for her hand. "You're the one who taught us to keep fighting. Good or bad, right or wrong, there will always be people who stand for what's right."

"True," Harry added. "Remus says it's the quality of one's convictions that determines success, not the number of followers."

"I know," Hermione sighed. "But if Bagman wins, so many people will lose. He'll continue erasing any semblance of tolerance, he'll destroy the entire infrastructure of government services and the planet, too—and if _anyone's_ going to be adversely affected," she muttered, "of course it won't be him or his allies, it'll be minorities and immigrants and all the vulnerable populations, and then—"

"And then people will need an ally," Pansy said simply. "Someone to show them that they are neither defenseless nor alone."

Hermione realized the others were looking at her, and she blinked.

"Theo's the politician," she reminded them. "And Draco's _king_, for fork's sake."

"We didn't say you had to do it all yourself," Pansy sniffed.

"Yeah," said Daphne. "There's always Hortense if you need another manic cult-like figure."

"Greengrass, what do you mean _another_?" said Theo.

"New York just went blue," announced Blaise.

"It'll be a long night still," said Harry, as if he had every intention to make himself comfortable.

"If we're lucky, a long life of long nights," said Pansy, murmuring it as Harry leaned his head onto her shoulder.

Hermione looked at Draco, who looked back at her, and then together they looked down at their son's sleeping face, imagining the life they would share; the legacy they would leave.

"Whatever happens," she said, glancing at him. "Back to work in the morning?"

He slid his arm around her, tugging her into his side.

"Always," he promised her, and it was safe there, existing as one in the world they had made.

* * *

There was a time when I didn't know who I was writing for, but it has recently become very clear. So clear, in fact, that I can't imagine how I failed to realize it sooner. I suppose that's the thing about time, that everything always looks different in retrospect. It's surreal, knowing everything we know that we couldn't have imagined as prior versions of our former selves.

I hope you will find some use in this, in having my thoughts; maybe someday when you're older. Maybe one day, when you wonder how I could have possibly done something you perceive as a wrong or when I've committed some terrible error or left some irremovable mark I didn't mean to leave on you. I'm sure I will, so in advance of that, I'm sorry. The thing is, sweetheart, that everything in this world is connected to something, and we are not ourselves without each other. Sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better. But without exception, this is what it means to live.

The best thing we can do in this life is take care of each other, which is a lesson not just in politics and statecraft, but also in life. In practice, it means being patient when patience is called for, being strong when strength is what's needed, being brave when courage is hard to find. Sometimes, the right thing will also be the lonely thing. Don't let the fact that you stand alone be enough to make you falter. You never know who might find the strength to follow where you lead.

Be gentle when you are met with suffering. Being firm doesn't always mean being loud. Be forgiving when the alternative is causing pain. Passion exists for you to make use of it. Be true to it when you find it, and to your voice, because it was given to you for a reason. Try to use it for good, my darling, because someday, someone will need it. And because only you will know how.

You will ask yourself from time to time if you are doing enough, or if you should have done more. You will ask yourself if certain things are your fault. You will blame yourself, berate yourself. You will question yourself, and sometimes you will need to. Other times you'll need to be kind to yourself and move on. I can't protect you from the humanity of it all, which means that even you will have some flaws. You will be given the opportunity to feel hate, anger, envy. Sometimes you will need to accept that these feelings are part of life. Other times you will need to leave them behind, because they are of no use to you. You can only carry so many things around with you, so try to maintain your grip on the good ones. Not just the soft ones or the sweet ones, but the useful ones. Sometimes those will be the ones that set you on fire. Other times, they will be the ones that heal the burns.

You get what you love most. Not because the universe is stingy, even though it sometimes is, but because you will inevitably make choices. Your love will determine for you the endurance you have that others may lack.

No matter how old you get, there will always be challenges. You'll never wake up and know everything the way you think you should, but don't worry. New roads will become new adventures, and being brave enough to love can make you strong.

Courage is not the absence of fear. You will hear this many times—I didn't make it up—but it is one of the things in this life that is always true. Courage is not a lack of something, but the resilience you will know by instinct; that voice that tells you to keep going, to keep searching, to always, always rise. Trust that voice, sweetheart, because it's yours. You may not always be ready for everything you face, but you'll have me, and your father, and your family. The family of people we chose, not just by blood, but the one we made. If I could give you one thing, it would be certainty of your future, but since I can't give you that, I'll give you the next best thing: the promise that you will never be alone.

I said before that I didn't know who I was writing to, but now it seems painfully obvious. I've been talking to you all along, haven't I? Even if I didn't know it before, this was always for you.

Welcome to the world, baby boy. It's not perfect. It has problems, but it's wide and full of possibility, and it is yours. There is beauty here if you know where to look.

And I for one can't wait to show you.

* * *

_**FIN**_

* * *

_**a/n: **__Thank you to those of you who've followed every update and taken the time to fill my inbox with kindness and support. I see you, I love you, and I am grateful. Please vote in November. Also, I probably could have come up with a better name for our young addition to the storyverse, but for wasteland purposes, I had to go with this one. (If you know you know.) If you want to keep up with what I'm working on, you can find me pretty much everywhere as olivieblake. _

_As ever, it has been an honor to put these words down for you. I sincerely hope you've enjoyed the stories._

_xx, Olivie_


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